In the Shadow of Albion
by Lady of Pride
Summary: Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself that he thought was good and dead. It's really too bad Italy seems to be the only one that notices anything's wrong with the old Empire...
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Ack—for whatever reason, the website keeps sending me an error message whenever I try to update half my fics. _'The Devil's Joke'_ is still a little out of whack, so I sincerely apologize for the delay. But in the meantime...

**Title:** In the Shadow of Albion

**Rating:** T to M —though it should be important to note that if I do *_coughprobablyeventuallycough_* up the ante, I'll put a big flashing light over the chapter(s) in question.

**Pairing(s):** I'm leaving this open with a _'multiple pairings'_ sign, but I guess it also has an odd element of _England/Italy_ that should be pointed out. The usual suspects are also present: Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/South Italy...

**Warnings: **_dark_!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don't know what to level of detail just yet)

**Fun Facts:** I'll try to explain everything along the way through the characters themselves, but if I sneak any jokes into the mix I'll point them out at the bottom of the page.

**Translations**: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page.

**Disclaimer**: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Why?** I was actually dared to try a unique pairing. Seriously. And this is what I came up with...

**Summary:** Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. Too bad Italy's the only one that seems to notice anything's up with the old Empire...

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

Between spouts of doodling on his notes and listening to Japan lecture them on greenhouse gases, Italy noticed something rather peculiar about the nation seated across the table from himself. England wasn't exactly a "rowdy" person when left to his own devices, but when he was sitting to the just left of America (—Alfred was his colony once upon a time, wasn't he?—) and to the right of France (—Italy would never openly _condemn_ his Big Brother, but even he had a limit to amount of groping he was willing to put up with from the man—) there was usually no saying how long it would take before the Brit found himself at his wit's end. Especially after America had managed to spill his fries all over England's work, and France was not-so-subtly feeling him up under the guise of trying to "help" the western nation clean up the mess. Even Italy could tell it was a recipe for disaster—in fact, he was honestly contemplating whether or not he should take this opportunity to duck beneath the table before England lost his composure altogether and hurled his tea cup at one of the two offenders...

Germany must have seen him flinch (and really, Italy suspected Ludwig must have had developed some sort of sixth sense concerning his habits by now), because the man grabbed him by his collar before he could drop out of sight and murmured that he should "_pay attention_" to Japan if he didn't want them to skip over the lunch break today.

Italy was rather partial to his pasta, so he relaxed into the man's grip and contented himself with watching England scribble the odd note down between sips of tea. From all outward appearances, Italy could easily imagine that England was miles away right now, far from his ex-colony and long-time enemy. It was a nice thought, really, because how often did any of them get a chance to _escape_ one another? Don't get him wrong—Italy was fond of his friends, but he lived with the constant fear of someone (_anyone_, really, if you included Lichtenstein) invading him when he least expected it. Never mind that it was the 21st century—Italy lived in the Mediterranean, after all. He got an eye-full of violence from across the proverbial pond all the time...

He glanced sideways at Romano—who was busy arguing under his breath with Spain—and then at Ludwig—who was busy actually paying attention—before deciding that this is what was probably meant when people said they were stuck between "a rock and a hard place". Italy would agree that the ordeal wasn't very funny. His chances of escape were _nil_ at this point.

He sighed as quietly as he could without setting off Ludwig's internal alarm, and then slumped down in his seat. He had hidden a box of pasta under his chair before they began today (there was never any way of telling when he would get hungry) but Germany had removed it sometime over the course of the morning without him noticing. Or maybe Romano ate it, he wasn't quite sure.

All he _did_ know was that he was pasta-less and starving. What a miserable situation to find oneself in...

As fate would have it, his eyes wandered back to England—who, he realized, happened to be looking at him. Normally, it wouldn't have been a particularly _remarkable_ thing (after all, people stared at each other all the time, there was really no avoiding it) except that England was smirking (just a little) and there was an unmistakable _glint_ in his eyes (which wasn't "just a little"), which Italy recognized from years of running, hiding, and inevitably being caught by whoever wanted to conquer him at the time. Italy would describe it as yet another miserable situation, second only to being pasta-less, and that he would have given anything at that moment just to—

"Five minutes," Ludwig growled, haven taken Italy by the arm and before he could slip under the table. The man's timing was uncanny. "_Five_ minutes, Italy, and then you can eat. Try to sit still until then, would you?"

"Sì..." he mumbled quietly. Part of him wanted to alert Germany to what he had just seen, but

he doubted the man would believe him anyway. Italy was infamous for scaring himself silly on a regular basis... Maybe he _was_ just scaring himself silly, he could never tell. Or maybe—

Maybe he _wasn't_ over-exaggerating, because a second glance at England revealed that the man was still, in fact, staring at him, with his elbows propped up on the armrests of his chair and his fingers steepled condescendingly in front of him. The impression the posture gave him reminded Italy too much of the way Spain sauntered when the man had come to visit him between bouts of conquering the new world, or the way Prussia smiled when he openly boasted the many vital regions he had captured in his prime—or _Germany,_ even, when the man had marched to hell and back again on nothing more than the whim of a deranged leader...

It was a look Italy hadn't seen in a long time.

He would be lying if he said part of him hadn't been hoping that he'd never have to see it again...

"Oi," Romano muttered. A quick jab of his elbow into Feliciano's ribs drew his attention away from the former Empire, realizing that he had managed to zone out on his brother's question. "I said, _how_ _much_ _longer_?"

"Uh...five minutes," he replied.

He could already tell they were going to be the longest five minutes of his life...

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

A/N: Like it? hate it? Aren't quite sure what just happened there? Drop me a note if you're in the mood. I appreciate the feedback.

Also, the other chapters won't be as short as this one. I just wanted to start with a teaser.

**Translations:**

_"Sì..."_ ~ "Yes", but I'm pretty sure you already knew that.

**Fun Facts:**

1) _"Italy lived in the Mediterranean, after all. He got an eye-full of violence from across the proverbial pond all the time..."_ ~This fic doesn't take place in any particular time, but I image Feliciano and Romano aren't exactly ignorant to all the hell that's been breaking out on the African continent. My prayers are with all the people living there right now...

2) _"The impression the posture gave him reminded Italy too much of the way Spain sauntered when the man had come to visit him between bouts of conquering the new world, or the way Prussia smiled when he openly boasted the many vital regions he had captured in his prime—or Germany, even, when the man had marched to hell and back again on nothing more than the whim of a deranged leader..." ~_I don't think there's too much here that you're not already familiar with. Spain, quite literally, sailed the globe, which is why Spanish is such a widespread language (although, Spain's pride undoubtedly took a blow when England defeated his Armada back in 1588). Prussia is...well, he's _'Prussia'_ and he picked fights like nobody's business. His victim of choice? That would probably be Austria (Prussia really had it out for that guy). And as for Germany, well...Hitler's little tyrannical reign is something I'm sure we'll never forget. I think Ludwig was probably driven half mad by the guy because the little nutter really tore his country a new one... *heavy sigh*


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for all the beautiful reviews and/or adding me to your favourite/alert list. I'm glad to see you're enjoying this.

**Title:** In the Shadow of Albion  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T to M — it should be important to note that if I do *_coughprobablyeventuallycough_* up the ante, I'll put a big flashing light over the chapter(s) in question.  
><strong>Pairing(s):<strong> I'm leaving this open with a _'multiple pairings'_ sign (because it's true), but I guess it also has an odd element of _England/Italy_ that should be pointed out. The usual suspects are also present: Germany/Italy, US/UK, , etc...  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_dark_!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don't know what to level of detail just yet)  
><strong>Fun Facts:<strong> I'll try to explain everything along the way through the characters themselves, but if I sneak any jokes into the mix I'll point them out at the bottom of the page.  
><strong>Translations<strong>: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page (with a special thanks to _**Red Hot Holly Berries**_ for providing me with the Italian!)  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
><strong>Critique?<strong> Welcomed.  
><em><strong>Summary:<strong>__ Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. And it's really too bad Italy's the only one that seems to notice anything's wrong with the old Empire..._

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

"_Feliciano_~," Antonio sang, and it was said with such a melodious trill that he was tempted to give it a try. As it would turn out, though, all he could manage was something that was more of a grimace than anything else. "...You remind me too much of my little tomato, Feli. Do you need a drink?"

A glass of wine sounded nice right about now, but Italy was never the sort of person to get drunk in the middle of the day, whether he was fulfilling his quota of business hours or doing something a little more entertaining. Besides, inebriation was never conducive with hiding from one's enemies, especially those who took pride in a long history of espionage...

Italy didn't want to risk it.

"_Grazie_, Antonio, but no." He bowed his head a little and tried to hide his anxiety behind his good manners as he sat down beside the man on the lobby bench. It worked most of the time, at least when he was a child. "I'm... looking for Romano."

"He ate your pasta, you know," the man murmured absently. "I told him it was rude, but he said you forgot to wake him up on time this morning. '_Fair_ _is_ _fair,'_ but I honestly wonder how he could tell..."

Italy bristled a little (—he was hungry, for goodness sake, and there was no way Ludwig was going to let him run off to make a new batch. Never mind that they were in _London_ of all places, which meant no one here knew how to make it properly—) but he had something bigger to worry about at the moment, and he didn't relish the thought of being alone long enough to have to deal with _'it'_ without someone to back him up. So he decided he would simply sit there with Spain and listen to him talk, and after the meeting he would tag along with Ludwig back to the hotel room and forget that anything ever happened—

Only that Prussia was here when he _shouldn't_ have been (—not since Ludwig put him under house arrest after the last, little fiasco—). Italy could practically feel the trouble stirring in the air as he waltzed through the door

"Hey, _Gorgeous_~," Prussia whistled with a cordial little bow and a flourish of his hand. He leaned down to give Italy a quick peck on the cheek and winked at him when he pulled back. "Don't tell West, okay? Or he'll have my head."

"Don't tell him that you're here?" Spain inquired, "Or that you kissed Feliciano?"

"Couldn't have kissed him if I wasn't here, right?"

"I see..."

"Of course, you do." Prussia winked again, but this time it was for Spain. "You have a moment? We need to talk..."

'_...Oh,'_ Italy thought, because that was the cue for him to leave. To _'leave'_—_**alone**__—_because Prussia was up to something that was so much more than simply wandering across Europe when he should be back in Berlin. Italy understood, of course—he had a tendency to tattle on the albino whenever his heists were targeted at Ludwig—but Ludwig was still in the boardroom arguing with America, and Italy had only wandered out of the room because he'd been following Romano (who was _where_ exactly, because Italy hadn't seen him since). And now he had to go _all_ the way back up to the eighth floor by himself, and _how_ was he supposed to know if England was—

Prussia snapped his fingers and Feliciano's focus narrowed back onto the _'here'_ and _'now'_. "You look ill, kiddo."

"Pasta withdrawal," Spain smiled.

"You Italian's are addicts."

"Are not," Feliciano murmured, but really he wasn't feeling too good. "Where's Romano?"

"Hiding from you," Spain sighed as he gave the illustrated dome above their heads a good look. The picture wasn't too bad actually—Feliciano could've painted a _'sky'_ a lot better than that, but could give praise where it was due. "Like I said, he stole your pasta."

"Tell me, _please_~... I promise I'm not angry. I'm just...lonely."

"Lonely _how_?" Prussia asked.

Which was answered by a swift kick to the shins from Spain. "If you're not careful, _amigo_, your brother's going to cut off more than just your head. And when you're nothing more than a _lonely_, little eunuch, Francis and I will have a good laugh at your expense."

"...My offer still stands."

"_Estúpido_, go ahead and die, see if I care. I won't save you if my Romanito and his mafia ever find out."

Prussia winced a little. But worry was always fleeting with him and he plopped down on the bench between the two of them with a smile. "Fair enough. But seriously, Feli, just give us ten minutes. This isn't for your virgin ears." After a beat, he gave the Italian a curious look. "_Are_ you a—?"

"I'm leaving," Feliciano sighed. He was bound to bump into someone else sooner or later on the way back, so there was really no reason for him to linger. England didn't have a vendetta against him, anyway, and the likelihood of running into him in the next twenty minutes or so was pretty slim...

Right?

"Such a _darling_~!" Prussia swooned. "I'll buy you a drink sometime, okay? Anything you want."

"_Grazie_."

"And I'll let you hold Gilbird, too. You like Gilbird, right? Because I know he likes _you_."

He—...okay, yeah, he did. A lot, actually, because he was just so small, and soft, and incredibly _adorable_, how could anyone resist?

"...Okay," he said. Then he stood up and excused himself for the time being, wondering why Ludwig never seemed to be enthralled by Gilbird the same way everyone else was. Maybe it was because he was a dog person—not that Italy didn't like dogs (—he adored them, in fact!—), but Ludwig's were rather large and just a _tad_ frightening when they all tried to greet him at once. They'd never bitten him, of course, but any one of them weighed almost as much as he did, and that was a _lot_ of weight to deal with when they were barrelling toward the door to see him. Not that he was really _complaining_, of course, because he _loved_ them, but it—

"_I'm sorry!"_

Italy froze.

At first he was too afraid to move (—it wasn't every day you were affronted by a bodiless voice—), but then two things occurred to him: one was that said voice sounded nothing like England, and the second was that the voice had been _apologizing_ to him, not threatening him or shrieking like a banshee, in a way that was actually rather polite for something that could've been potentially terrifying.

Having convinced himself that any kind of doom, whatsoever, was not impending, Feliciano blinked a little and realized, suddenly, that his visitor wasn't really invisible at all.

He was...

Well...not _America_ (though the resemblance was uncanny), but he was Caucasian, at least, and his dialect was from the West... He was probably one of France's, then, because he didn't have England's bushy eyebrows. _'New France'_ wasn't it, or was that someone else?

Feliciano opened his mouth to speak, and very nearly outright _said _'NewFrance' until he recognized the sleeping bear in the nation's arms and remembered that France had lost that colony a long, long time ago...

"Canada," Feliciano greeted. "_Mi dispiace_. I didn't see you."

"I understand," he mumbled. And then he smiled a little, even though Feliciano could tell it didn't quite reach his eyes. "And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to run into you."

"No worries."

"Thank you. I guess...I guess I'll see you in the boardroom—"

"Canada," he interjected, just as the man was about to leave. Despite what he tried to tell himself, Feliciano was still afraid. "Y-you...you look sad."

The Canadian stared at him for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot, almost as though he hadn't really expected Feliciano to want to speak to him beyond their salutations. But then his shoulders relaxed a little and he adjusted the weight of the bear in his arms, and Italy smiled one of his most charming smiles because he knew it was something few people could resist.

"...Can I tell you something?"

"_Per favore, _anything~."

"Well, I..." the Canadian glanced over his shoulder quickly to check for company, and then lowered his voice. "I've been fighting with both Ivan and Alfred for a while now, and you know how they get sometimes..."

Oddly enough, he did. He'd fought against them in the past, after all, and he didn't _ever_ want to go toe-to-toe with either of the two superpowers again. It made him wonder, then, how _Canada_ of all nations had managed to peeve both of them off at the same time.

"_Sì_," he agreed. "But why?"

"Well, the UN wants us to finalize the extent of our sovereignty over the sea by the end of the year, and as it so happens, Russia and I are separated by the Bering Strait. The farther either of us can claim use over the ocean stretches out to about the end of the continental shelf, and now _Ivan_ is trying to claim that that border between us should shift farther in _my_ direction." Canada paused long enough to scan the hallway a second time. Spain and Prussia were still in the lobby just around the corner, but they were still too far to eavesdrop on the conversation, experts that they were... "As for _Alfred_, he won't accept the fact that the Archipelago is _my_ territory and that he just can't sail through the Northwest Passage without permission. So then what does he do? He cruises on through with a nuclear submarine! I mean, I understand that Alaska touches the Arctic, but if anything happens up there, _I_ have to deal with the mess, you know?"

Italy blinked. And then he blinked again. Of course, he _knew_ that they all had their own problems and that, perhaps, Canada had always been pushed around a little by the others, but Feliciano had always thought Alfred was closer to his northern counterpart than just...well, whatever _this_ was. Brothers were supposed to be kind to each other, weren't there? Honestly, what other reason would Ludwig have not to strangle Gilbert after all the grief he'd caused him?

...Then again, Romano still tended to shout at him every once in a while (not to mention the hail of fury his brother had called down from the heavens above when he found out Feliciano and Ludwig were doing a little more than just _sleeping_ together in the same a bed. Honestly, though, Feliciano thought Romano would've figured it out sooner than that...)

"What do you think is going to happen now?" Feliciano inquired, not because he expected Canada to already have a solution to his problem, but because his mind was beginning to wander somewhere rather inappropriate. He didn't want to have to explain to the man why he was blushing if said mind chose _now_ of all times to run away with him.

"No clue, but I told Belarus that Russia was gradually expanding away from her, and I think he might forget the whole ordeal when she gets her hands on him. And if _that_ doesn't work, we'll probably settle it over hockey somehow; I'm not too worried about Ivan. _Alfred_, on the other hand...well, what can I say? At least Arthur understands what I'm up against. I'm actually kind of surprised he wanted to talk to me."

Arthur...?

As in _England-_Arthur?

Italy opened his mouth—and then closed it again. Part of him _didn't_ want to get himself tied up in England's business (or _anyone's_ business, for that matter, because he barely had enough time to deal with his own problems), but there was a nagging little voice in the back of his head that told him that this tidbit of information was probably important. It might even give him a hint as to _why_ England was looking as smug as he did, and not just in an _'I-got-a-leg-up-on-France'_ way either.

"That's nice." Italy tried to smile. It probably worked, because Canada looked none-the-wiser "What did he say?"

"Oh, well, that Alfred's got a good '_whipping_' heading his way, and that, if I wanted, Arthur would be more than happy to troll through the Passage to hunt down any intruders, American or otherwise, so long as I promised never to become _'French' _again..." Canada frowned. "...whatever _that_ means. He already knows about my French-Canadians, and I can't see him forgetting about Quebec."

"But he doesn't remember you often, no?"

"Not my _name_, no, although he seemed to have no problem with that today. Strangely enough, though, he's never forgotten my birthday, so at the very least I know he's always remembered I was a colony."

Italy wanted to flinch. That sounded kind of horrible, actually, because, _really_, who forgot about their own colony? Granted, England had lorded over at least a quarter of the world's population by the 19th century, but even _Spain_ had managed to remember all of his underlings during his rule as an Empire, and that was while trying to take care of _Romano_, of all people...

Feliciano really had to applaud the man for his patience.

"Anyhow, do you want to head back?" Canada nodded at the elevator at the end of the hall. "I want to see if I maybe can catch Alfred before the end of the break."

'Maybe'. And that was a pretty big _maybe_. Alfred was stubborn in his ways, and Germany didn't particularly enjoy buckling to anyone, so their argument could very well carry on until the end of the day. And that was usually what happened on a _good_ day. Last year, Ivan and Alfred had very nearly bludgeoned each other to death while arguing over who-still-had-_what_ with respect to their nuclear missiles.

Italy didn't say as much, but trailed after the Canadian quietly into the elevator anyway. Once they were inside, though, something else occurred to him.

"...What was England like?"

"Hm?" Canada pressed the _eight_ and stood back as the doors swung shut. His ahoge bobbed as the carriage proceeded to carry them up. "You mean when I was a colony?"

"_Sì_. When he was an empire."

"Arthur was an '_empire'_ for a while, you know, but I suppose...I suppose he was a no-nonsense kind of guy. He could be charming when he wanted to be, but he enjoyed his power, I think, and maybe..." Canada paused here, blushing in embarrassment as though he hadn't ever meant to tell anyone about this. "...maybe he enjoyed it a little _too_ much. I mean, he still has the Commonwealth, but losing America probably left a bitter taste in his mouth, and the years of Alfred's revolution were probably the bleakest of my life. But what do I know, right? Arthur grew up in a time where you killed or were killed. You probably remember what it was like."

And he did.

He remembered being small and weak, and not yet a nation; merely something his 'brothers' fought over for his inheritance from Rome. He remembered talking to Romano about the Spanish Inquisition and of Francis when he tried to take his brother away from Antonio. He could even remember the feeling of Ludwig's men raping his lands after _'Italy'_ signed an armistice with the Allies...

They were bitter memories, all of them, and he didn't particularly enjoy reminiscing over them—not when he closed his eyes and could easily remember the _good_ times, the days he spent painting, and cooking, and listening to Austria's music. He was never powerful in the way his friends were, but he was happy at least, and that would never change.

He wondered then, why anyone would want to go back to those days...

"Why do you ask?" Canada inquired.

"No reason. I was just curious..."

"Thank you, then," the man continued. "It's nice having a conversation with someone that isn't looking for a fight."

"_Sì_," he said.

Because he knew exactly how that felt.

A/N: I know this chapter was surprisingly Arthur-less, but have no fear! I just needed to give Italy a moment or two to prepare himself. After all, he _is_ up against the British Empire...

**Translations:** (As I mentioned before, _**Red Hot Holly Berries **_is my wonderful Italian/French translator, but since I used one-worded phrases this chapter, I decided not to bother her. Having said that, if I managed to screw anything up, I apologize...)

"_Grazie"_ ~ 'Thank you' (Italian)

"_Mi dispiace"_ ~ 'I'm sorry/My apologies' (Italian)

"_Per favore"_ ~ 'Please' (Italian)

"_Estúpido"_ ~ _should_ mean 'Stupid' (Spanish) in the vocative form. Feel free to correct me if it's not.

**Fun Facts:** (I've got quite the list today...)

1) _Prussia..._ ~Believe or it not, I have German friends who tell me that they and their ancestors are '_Prussian_'. I think, perhaps, having people that still identify so strongly with that culture is part of why he's lasted as long as he has without being a 'country'. I guess he really is just that awesome...

2) _New France_...~we were France's first (hence why we have Quebec), but then England, more or less, took over a handful of France's colony and told him he could only take back a few. To sum things up, France chose its sugar colonies, Martinique and Guadeloupe, over Canada...*sad face*

3) _The Northwest Passage/the Bering Strait_...~this is actually a hot topic for Canada right now because we really do only have a year left to claim our limit of the sea! (*cue pirate cackle*) Honestly, though, we're only a little mad at Russia, because they started dropping proverbial flags on the ocean floor before we completed all our research—this little fiasco is going to be over and done with soon, so we're not too worried about it. But as for the Northwest Passage, well...sorry, America, but this is a rather stressful situation for us. The Archipelago really is a cluster of islands that belong to Canada, and braided between these islands is the 'Northwest Passage'. And since we're the first response for anything that happens up there, we just appreciate knowing who plans on going through there and when. So, pretty please...? (But don't get me wrong—we love the Americans, really. They're like a fun-and-occasionally-annoying bigger brother. Having said that, we, as Canadians, are pretty annoying too, so it's all good...)

4) _"Oh, well, that Alfred's got a good 'whipping' heading his way, and that, if I wanted, Arthur would be more than happy to troll back and forth through the Passage to hunt down any intruders, American or otherwise, so long as I promised never to become 'French' again..."_ ~I can totally imagine Arthur figuring out a way to withstand the cold just so he could go pirate on somebody's a** again. As for the 'French' comment, we're having our federal elections on May the 2nd, and since I know England didn't like Trudeau back when he was alive (God bless that man), I think Arthur would want us to have a Prime Minister that wasn't born in Quebec. I think Canada is aware of this, but because we have such delicate ties with the province, he wouldn't outright say that to anyone, even Feli.

5) _"Arthur was an 'empire' for a while, you know, but I suppose...I suppose he was a no-nonsense kind of guy. He could be charming when he wanted to be, but he enjoyed his power, I think, and maybe..."_ ~honestly, the British Empire was the largest empire to date, and Arthur really did rule over about a quarter of the world's population at one point. Just look at how many countries speak English.

6) _"He remembered being small and weak..."_ ~this is a loaded paragraph. The Spanish Inquisition was established on September 27, 1480, and was disbanded on March 9, 1820 (and South Italy would've been under his control at least for part of the long tribunal...). It was a sordid little thing, so I'm not going to go into too much detail about it. The comment about Francis fighting Antonio over Romano was already talked about in the show, but just as a recap, they really did have about four battles before France gave up. And as for Ludwig...well, the old Germany wasn't too happy when Italy bailed (which, really, I guess he didn't, because even Italy's people were confused as to what was happening). This little story really deserves its own multi-chaptered fic, so I'll just say that the Nazi's tore their way through the country on the way out. And it wasn't pretty...


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I'm actually surprised my rambling doesn't annoy you enough to scare you away from reading the 'Fun Facts'. :) You're all just so awesome! (Also, thank you for the wonderful feedback! I really appreciate it.)

**Title:** In the Shadow of Albion  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T to M — it should be important to note that when I do up the ante, I'll put a big flashing light over the chapter(s) in question.  
><strong>Pairing(s):<strong> _'multiple pairings'_ (literally), but I guess it also has an odd element of _England/Italy_ that should be pointed out. The usual suspects are also present: Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/South Italy, etc...  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_dark_!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don't know to what level of detail just yet, _possibly_ on the dub-con-ish side, though)  
><strong>Fun Facts:<strong> I'll try to explain everything along the way through the characters themselves, but if I sneak any jokes into the mix I'll point them out at the bottom of the page.  
><strong>Translations<strong>: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page (special thanks to _**Red Hot Holly Berries**_ for correcting my French in this chapter).  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
><em><strong>Summary:<strong>__ Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. And it's really too bad Italy's the only one that seems to notice anything's wrong with the old Empire..._

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

They started late by maybe fifteen minutes. After the stragglers had made their way back to their seats, and after both Alfred and Ludwig deemed it necessary to call a temporary truce between themselves, Kiku stole the spotlight long enough to ask if anyone had any additional questions for him before turning their attention over to Yao. The Chinese man took the floor with a small bow, gave Japan a steely, sidelong glance, and proceeded to introduce his own (_'—improved, aru'_) plan on lowering the GHG emissions.

Feliciano took a copy of the afternoon's agenda when it was passed around the table, smiled a little when Japan gave the lecturing nation an amused look, and then realized, dimly, that England's chair was still empty.

_...Empty_.

He thought it was interesting, to say the least, that the host of all people would be MIA. Italy had known very little of the man prior to his discussion with Canada, but he knew the Brit appreciated punctuality the same way America delighted in receiving gifts. And ominous air or not, most nations would consider it rude if they realized he was gone. After all, they each took care to speak the language and observe the laws of the host country when they were there—the _least_ he could do was show up (where Italy could keep his eyes on him).

The only thing was...nobody seemed to notice.

Absolutely _no one_.

Not even _Ludwig, _and Feliciano was half-convinced the man had a second pair of eyes on the back of his head—that, or God had given him a keen sense of intuition. That was really the only way he could explain how the man knew when he was feeding his dogs pasta when he wasn't home to stop Feli.

Fidgeting nervously in his seat, Feliciano fought the urge to peak under the table (—that would just look stupid). England wouldn't want to attack him here anyhow, not with nearly every nation in the world crammed together in one room. It would be WWII all over again—or maybe a free-for-all. Feliciano couldn't tell. Sad as he was to admit it, he wasn't up-to-date on who was friends with whom anymore in the 21st century.

"Do you have any Tylenol?" Ludwig murmured quietly, still a little red-faced from his screaming match. "Or something, please—anything will do."

He nodded, because he did, and leaned over awkwardly in his chair to fish around inside his satchel for the bottle. "_Sì_. You have a..." Oh, what was the word? "...a _head_-_banger_?"

Romano snorted derisively into his coffee cup before returning it to the coaster beside his name plaque. "You mean he _is_ a head_-_banger," he chuckled. "_All_ Germans are metal heads, aren't they?"

Spain chastised the young man under his breath, but Romano waved it off with a flourish of his hand. He enjoyed taking a jab at Ludwig whenever the opportunity presented itself, regardless of the consequences.

Italy _tsked_ at his brother under his breath but was still at a loss for the right word...

"_Migraine,"_ someone whispered into Feliciano's ear, and he smiled when he realized that, yes, that was it.

And then he shrieked.

Or 'screamed', maybe. That sounded more accurate.

China paused long enough to give Italy a strange look before continuing with his speech, going so far as to snap his fingers impatiently when it seemed that no one wanted to tear their eyes away from the Italian. Eventually they relented, and so Feliciano sat there, stalk still, as both his brother and his lover stared at him in confusion.

Just to Feliciano's left, England leaned forward to deposit a copy of tomorrow's agenda on top of his notebook, and then inclined his head far enough to give Feliciano a wink before moving on to deliver a copy to Romano...

Needless to say, Feliciano was embarrassed—which was kind of odd, because he was generally an _unabashed_ nation by the nature. Heck, he was hardly afraid of walking around in the nude in front of company, so why should he let a minor outburst humiliate him now?

Because it was, more or less, in front _England_.

After all, there was a difference between being 'nude in front of a friend' and 'nude in front of an enemy', and having England watch him so intently made him feel as though he had been stripped bare. Italy had no military secrets or weapons of mass destruction. He was about as weak in battle techniques as England was in culinary skills, and _if_ he were to find himself at odds with the nation, alone, without Ludwig or any of his other allies to aid him, there was no question who would win.

"Something troubling you?" Ludwig whispered; his eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Why are you so nervous?"

"...Low blood sugar," he mumbled in response. It wasn't exactly a lie, either. He was beginning feeling faint.

Ludwig hummed thoughtfully for a moment, evaluating whether or not it was the truth, and then returned his undivided attention to China. Feliciano knew they would talk about it later—Germany had adapted Italy's behaviour of wriggling his way into other people's business (a habit Italy hadn't entirely intended to bestow upon him).

He honestly had no idea what he was supposed to tell the man...

Resolving that, maybe, he should just tell him the _truth_ (—after all, if he _died_, at least Ludwig would know who to go to in order to find his body—), or that maybe there was still a slim chance that he was blowing this all out of proportion, he lifted the sheet England left him to give it a once-over and realized that the man had slipped something under it as well, probably when he had winked at Feliciano.

It was just a card...probably nothing important really...

_~99 Kensington High Street_

_Babylon at the Roof Gardens_

_Dinner at 6:00pm_

_Your friend,_

_Arthur Kirkland~_

...unless you believed everyone had a _'_lastsupper'.

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

"How do I get there?"

Francis wrinkled his nose curiously and plucked the card delicately from between Feliciano's fingers. As soon as he saw who it was from, though, he rolled his eyes and tossed it onto the hotel bed beside his guest. "That man and his '_food'_...It really is just off Kensington High Street, _mon petit_. I would escort you there myself, but I have other plans."

"Do you think he'd be upset if I didn't go?"

The Frenchman gave him an odd look, and then patted Feliciano's head fondly as he offered him an encouraging smile. "I understand that his food is not up to par with _our_ standards, but 'Babylon' is not too bad. Your stomach will survive."

Italy wilted. It would've helped if he wasn't so hungry. "So...you think I should go?"

"Why not? Unless you are otherwise _'engaged'_, of course."

Feliciano tried to ignore his suggestive little eyebrow wriggle and picked the card up so that he could tuck it away safely in the breast pocket of his suit. He'd tried to invite Ludwig to tag along with him earlier, but the man told him he suspected something was afoot (—namely '_Gilbert_', though how he could tell was beyond Feliciano's understanding—) and gave him a brief kiss before adding that he would see him again later that evening.

And then that was that.

Honestly, Feliciano felt a little putout.

"He frightens me."

"He frightens me too, _mon petit_, but his eyebrows don't bite."

Feliciano appreciated the humour, but it did absolutely nothing to lighten his mood. He was an hour away from his dance with destiny and he had nothing in the way of a battle plan yet (which, he supposed, was something that really hadn't changed in the last couple of centuries). "...What was he like when he was powerful?"

"He was a stubborn, little cow...and _cruel_," Francis muttered, but then he allowed himself to smile, just a smidgen, as though he had enjoyed those days nonetheless. "But so was I, I suppose. He was such a _lovely_ victim..."

"Victim?"

"_Friend_, Feli. I said _friend_."

Italy wasn't stupid, but he didn't want to argue with the man on this one. He didn't want to think about France's list of conquests either, because his mind had a way of running away with him sometimes—but, _oh_, the thought had already gone and popped into his head. There was no stopping it now...

Francis gave him a curious look before turning his attention to the mirror above the antique commode. As the man went about brushing his hair, Feliciano glanced over his shoulder at the beautiful room and thought about how spacious it was for only one guest (—not that Francis really cared he wasn't sharing it with anyone in particular: '_Ah, mon petite, I am really sharing it with __**everyone~**__'_). In all honestly, he'd been hoping that Francis would forgo his outing with Antonio and Romano (and _Gilbert_, of course) in lieu of trying to seduce him. Then he could politely call England and tell him that he was sorry, but he feared for his virtue and wouldn't be leaving Ludwig's side ever again in the foreseeable future. Even Ludwig wouldn't have anything to say against that—after all, he had already invested a great deal of time and effort into fending off the Frenchman in the past, so at least Feliciano wouldn't be _lying_...

Not that he would ever admit to it, but now he _really_ felt putout. He here was, sitting on the man's bed, in his _best_ Armani suit—practically miles away from his knight in shining armour!—and the extent of Francis' _groping_ had been nothing more than a mediocre pat on the head. A _pat_. On the _head_. As though he still hadn't hit _puberty_.

Either Ludwig's last warning was still fresh in France's mind, or Feliciano was losing his touch—which he refused to believe, because _everyone_ thought he was beautiful, and kind, and a wonderful cook—and why would his face have any reason to fail him now? Was he getting old? Maybe he wasn't peppy enough anymore. Maybe he was unappealing when he was nervous. Was he sweating? Was he—?

"You shouldn't pout like that," Francis scoffed. Glancing over his shoulder at Feliciano, he frowned in mild disgust. "If you go there looking like _that,_ not even _rosbif_ will be able to keep his hands to himself... Promise me you won't do anything '_cute_', Feli~. You will do that for much Big Brother, _non_?"

"Sì," Feliciano promised, though now that he thought about it maybe this wasn't the effect he should've been going for. He wasn't a harlot, after all. "I'm overdressed, aren't I?"

"_Non_. _Angleterre_ wouldn't recognize 'fashion' if it slapped him in the face...Your beauty is a curse, is it not?"

Feliciano smiled a little.

It felt weak, though.

He still had no idea what he was going to do tonight... England wouldn't try to _kill_ him, would he? No, that would be too suspicious...especially when you considered how many people Italy had tried (and failed) to talk into coming with him tonight. They were either scared away by the prospect of eating British cuisine, or were, in all actuality, too busy to spare him the time. Even Romano had ditched him, citing a need to watch Antonio's alcohol intake so that he didn't do anything stupid over the course of the evening (—_'not that it can be helped,'_ he'd scoffed, _' 'Stupid' and 'Spanish' are synonymous, after all_._'_—).

"Go. Be amused," Francis demanded. "He is really quite funny when he drinks too much. You can even ask _Matthieu_. He will even dance, on occasion."

"_Matthieu_?" he asked, and then he remembered. "Oh..._Canada_?"

"Yes," Francis replied softly. "Yes..._Canada_."

For a moment Italy thought he had managed to insult him (just something else to add to his list of troubles), but then he realized the man was smiling, and, oh, his eyes were sparkling too—

"Did I—?"

Francis leaned down and kissed him on the lips before he could retreat, but it wasn't quite as lecherous as he'd been expecting. It had been...oddly _sincere_. "He needs more friends, _mon petit_. Thank you for not letting him go unnoticed."

Oh, now his face felt hot—he was blushing, wasn't he? That didn't happen every day.

He had really only talked to the nation in order to escape an encounter with England, but, yes, he did have a nice chat. And Canada wasn't as boring as everyone probably thought he was. _And_ he hoped everything worked out between '_Matthieu_' and Alfred, because Feliciano didn't like to think about anyone arguing, least of all brothers.

"You should probably leave now," Francis sighed, "He will be upset with you if you're late."

Oh, right...he probably should. There was no telling how long it would take him to get there.

Feeling as though the weight of the world was sitting on his shoulders, he stood up from the bed and dragged his feet to the door. Hand on the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder to give Francis one last, long look... "You said he was _'cruel'_...has he ever been _as_ cruel since after the Wars?"

France returned his hard look with one of his own—one which pretty much said_, 'what kind of question is __**that**__?'_ —but he humoured Feliciano with an answer, nonetheless. "_Cruel..._? No, not anymore. That was a long time ago, Feli...Does that answer your question?"

"_Sì_." He murmured.

Though it really didn't.

**A/N:** England will get his floor time in the next chapter—I _promise_. I also don't mean to wander so far and wide with respect to Italy's narration, but everything serves a purpose! You'll see...

**Important**: I know I already said that the rating would probably waver, but I wanted to ask you first what you're actually comfortable with. I realize you could've stumbled across this story when you specifically set your filter to exclude 'M', so I can do one of two things here: either A) none of you actually care about the rating (not to say you want full blown smut, but talking about it in softer detail is fine, etc., what-have-you...); or B) _'fade black, please'_ in which case I would post the act itself in a separate post and tell you were to find it (on this website—unless you're following me on live-journal, in which case I'll leave that online copy 'as-is'). So...what say you?

**Translations:** (Special thanks to my translator, the darling _**Red Hot Holly Berries**_ )

"_mon petit"_ ~ should mean 'my small one' (French)

"_rosbif"_ ~a unique insult which literally means "roast beef" (French)

**Fun Facts:**

1) _"Both Alfred and Ludwig had called a temporary truce_..." ~I'm not aware of any problems between Germany or America, though, like I said, everything serves a purpose...

2) _"-improved, aru"_ ~I threw China in because his 'aru'-ness baffles me to no end. Do they really have a lot of words that end in -_aru_, or is this same as the 'eh' myth someone started about Canadians ( I've travelled coast to coast and I've never heard anyone say 'eh'...Well, I've never been to New Found Land, so maybe there?)?

3) _"After all, they each took care to speak the language and observe the laws of the host country..."_ ~Sounds pretty courteous, right? And besides, they've known each other for quite a while now, so they probably each know at least more than one language. Also, I'm not sure what Himaruya intended us to believe whenever the nations had a world meeting...

4) _"headbanger_..._"_ ~...is another word for a 'metalhead', which I've heard (and know isn't entirely accurate) a lot of people use to describe Germans, much like Romano. The idiom Feliciano confused it for was: 'I have a _wall-banger_ of a headache'.

5) _"Babylon at the Roof Gardens..." _~is a real, contemporary British cuisine restaurant. I've never actually been to England (or across the ocean yet, for that matter) but the internet seems to think it's one of the top London restaurants and I poked one of my friends to ask if the food there was good (which they seemed to think it was, even if it was a little pricy).

6) _"He was a stubborn, little cow...and cruel..." _~maybe this is just a Quebec thing, but all my French friends seem to like using 'cow' as their weapon of choice in verbal banter. As for England's history, well, we'll be diving headlong into that in the next chapter...

7) _"'Stupid' and 'Spanish' are synonymous, after all..."_ ~Romano truly loves Antonio—don't try and convince me otherwise. He's just so in denial, it's almost ridiculous. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Again, I would like to sincerely thank you for all the reviews. I'm happy to see this odd pairing has grown on so many of you. (And now, you get to see England—_for real_. I'm not just teasing you this time...Seriously...)

**Title:** In the Shadow of Albion  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T to M (***IfI could please draw your attention the note at the bottom of this page...**)**  
><strong>Pairing(s): <strong>England/Italy and other multiplepairings (quite literally); e.g., Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/South Italy, etc...  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_dark_!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don't know to what level of detail just yet; _possibly_ a smidgen on the dub-con-ish side of life, though)  
><strong>Fun Facts:<strong> As far as historical facts go, I'll try to explain everything over the course of the chapter, but if I sneak any inside jokes into the mix I'll point them out at the bottom of the page.  
><strong>Translations<strong>: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page (special to _**Red Hot Holly Berries**_ for the proper Italian, though, and for also correcting my French).  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
><em><strong>Summary:<strong>__ Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. And it's really too bad Italy's the only one that seems to notice anything's wrong with the old Empire..._

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

As much as he hated letting other people drive, Feliciano called a cab instead of taking the bus, in the fear that he might lose himself somewhere on the transit system as he had last year in America. He generally enjoyed the sensation of the wind in his hair as he tore down the street at a breakneck speed, but Ludwig made him promise he wouldn't get a rental, and the taxi driver only laughed at him when he asked if he could take the wheel. So there he sat, in the back of the car, and cringed a little on the inside every time the man stopped at a red light.

_Really_. How England was ever _punctual_ with traffic like this?

Nevertheless, he paid the man when he got to Kensington High Street and gave him a tip, just because they arrived with time to spare and the man had been so polite, and then he wandered down the sidewalk in search of the right address. It really was just off the Kensington, and he would've missed it if a young lady hadn't stopped him when she saw him meandering aimlessly down the street, but then he had his bearings straight and, oh, he actually had to go _in_ there now didn't he, because he couldn't just turn back and...and...

In the back of his mind, he could almost hear Ludwig chastising him. Sometimes, he could get worked up over the simplest things. But it was in his nature, after all, and if it had kept him alive this long, maybe he should've..._well_, he should've realized that, yes, he'd seen a lot of horrible things in his lifetime, but he'd still managed to come out of it alive. And even if he owed Ludwig a great deal of credit for protecting him on a daily basis, he at least had enough common sense in his head not to start another war.

That had to count for something, didn't it?

So despite the lump that had suddenly developed in his throat and the voice in the back of his head reminding him that bad things came in small packages (like anthrax, or, in this case, England—the man was only marginally taller than he was, after all), he didn't turn back when the hostess asked him if he had any reservations. He said yes (both in the sense that, yes, England probably booked them a table and, yes, he _did_ have those 'doubtful' sort of reservations about this whole affair) and handed her the card England left him. She smiled politely and led him to the far end of the room, leaving him with an empty table by the window.

The waiter came by the moment he sat down, poured him a glass of water, and quietly informed him that 'Mr. Kirkland' would be arriving shortly.

...In all honestly, he was somewhat surprised he was the first one there—more so when he realized they wouldn't be meeting in a private room. Not that anyone would be able to stop England if he chose to do something horrendous (which was something of a perk as far as nationhood went; Arthur could control them in a way neither his Prime Minister nor his Queen ever could), but the sound of laughter and merriment was comforting enough on its own. He could handle this, he realized. He just had to remind himself that he wasn't entirely alone.

_But, _maybe that was the purpose all along, to lull him into a false sense of secur—

_No_. No... he wasn't going to go there again. He'd decided he was in the game the moment he sat down in that chair. All he could do now was wait.

"You're early."

Though evidently, not very long.

"_Ve_—" he began to say, though it cracked a little at the end (how embarrassing...). Blushing, he stood up to shake the man's hand, only to receive a bouquet of flowers instead. "Oh..._roses_?"

"Yes. As I recall, Ludwig said that you usually give them to your friends."

Oh, right...how he could forget St. Valentine's Day? The little incident had galvanized them into action as far as intimacy went, but his gift to Germany hadn't initially been a declaration of love. It was a happy accident, really.

"Thank you," he said, returning to his seat. The flowers were coral; thorn-less—quite lovely actually. "I didn't bring anything for you. I'm sorry. I thought this was...business."

England chuckled good-naturedly and took his seat across the table.

Of course, Italy hoped the man didn't think he meant _that_ kind of business. Admittedly, he hadn't engaged in that sort of thing in quite a while ever since he and Ludwig decided not to be casual anymore. Italy wasn't a particular fan of it anyway, at least as far as Francis was concerned, and besides—

He really needed to call it quits on these internal dialogues of his.

England was staring at him again, smiling somewhat in amusement. There was something familiar about that look, though it unnerved Feliciano in a way he couldn't quite describe. Not exactly pensive..._appraising_. Yes! That was it. England was _appraising _him...

...Appraising him.

On impulse, he took up the glass of water and tipped it against his lips. He took a sip. Then another. And another. His throat was dry (—those roses would need a little water of their own soon—) and he was worried again, because he had always been _'appraised'_. What was his real worth, anyway? He was the heir to Rome's fortune, though he was weak, and timid, and maybe just a little juvenile in how he viewed the world—he liked peace. Peace was..._peaceful_. There was happiness to be found in peace—

"Business, perhaps..." Arthur's eyes were sparkling. Just so lively and _green_. Feliciano hadn't noticed how green they were before (they were beautiful, once you got over the eyebrows). "If you prefer, we could talk 'business'. Personally, I've had my fill of it today, but if there's something you need to discuss with me, then, by all means, feel free let me know."

"No," he said, maybe a little too quickly. "No, what I meant to say is that I'm..._surprised_?"

"...Was that a question?"

"I..._No_."

"I see." The man's eyes flickered briefly to one side (looking for the eavesdroppers, he supposed). Then he leaned forward onto his elbows and steepled his fingers in a way that could almost pass for casual. "You want to know why I invited you here tonight?"

"Yes."

"Because we are, for lack of a better word, perfectly good '_strangers_'?"

"Yes." Or as close to '_strangers_' as two people could be after having tried to kill one another on the battlefield...but Feliciano wasn't about to argue. No need to remind the man that the _closest_ relationship they'd have thus far was the kind reserved for enemies. "Is there...is there something you wanted me to do for you?"

"Yes, actually... I would like to build a better relationship between us. I want to expand."

"_Expand_," Italy murmured. He was smack dab in the middle of the Mediterranean, after all. If they could hit it off well enough, England could easily build a new network through Italy himself. "I have a lot of friends, I guess..."

"Yes, you do." There was a _'but'_ lingering somewhere in there... "But I would like to try this one nation at a time, if you don't mind. You're interesting, to say the least, and a rather pleasant chap overall."

Italy nodded. "No, I understand. I'm more '_approachable'_ than Romano, _Sì_?"

"That you are, but...what I meant to say is that you're rather charming. We all have our peculiarities, but you appear to grow on the unlikeliest of characters, Veneziano. I believe that's your strong suit."

Feliciano was going out on a limb here, but... "You think it would be too difficult to try this with anyone else, don't you?"

England laughed, good and deep and hearty, the way Ludwig sometimes did when he couldn't hold it in any longer. "I'm sure Francis would agree with you there, lad... But please believe me when I say that I honestly think you're a beautiful creature, and that I want to make amends with you. That's really all there is to it."

Feliciano shifted nervously in his seat, trying subtly to correct his posture. He was hungry, and tired, and still not entirely convinced, but, well, here he was...

He found that England was enchanting, in an _odd_ sort of way—he was good with words, at the very least—but Feliciano could still sense something lurking beneath the surface. He wanted to say _yes_. He wanted to sit there and have a pleasant meal with a new face, but he wasn't stupid and he couldn't ignore how intently the man was staring at him. There was a poetic term for it—Francis had said it once. What _waaaaas_...oh yes, the man's eyes were _'boring into'_ his soul...

But what was he going to do about it? Even if he didn't want to have anything to do with what the man was planning, how could he possibly just stand up and leave? Running away from the problem wasn't going to solve anything, and his friends wouldn't been too keen on helping him as soon as he mentioned Arthur. Sure, they'd jump to his aid if he mentioned anyone in _Africa_, but they'd be sceptical the moment he named one of the first world countries.

"That would be...lovely," he said instead. And then he smiled, just for good measure. He was good at smiling. His lies had always been somewhat lacking, but he found he could pull them off if he was willing to show a little teeth for them; just a smidgen of innocence and a curl of the lip. He could be enchanting in a way of his own.

"Very good." ..._'Very good'_ as though all was it should be. Not as though, _'very good, I'm_ _so happy you agree'_. "Now, I'm sure you share France's belief that my food is dreadful, but perhaps you're not too afraid to try it, hm? I've been led to believe that you eat Ludwig's cooking, despite the fact that you prefer pasta."

"Sì. I'm open to new things."

"Good." The man said, giving Feliciano a wink. Then he finally turned his attention to the menu. "I was hoping you would say that..."

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

The dinner itself was alright. They shared tidbits about their respective cultures and mulled a short while over religion, drank good wine and ate the man's peculiar food (—in good conscience, he couldn't outright call it _bad_; there was quality to it, however bizarre it tasted to him—), though he spent the entirety of the evening sitting on the very edge of his seat, feeling as though the man was playing some sort of elaborate mind game with him. Italy was a ball of nervous energy, waiting for anything that England might say or do that would give away his true intentions...

But he didn't.

All Feliciano got for his efforts was a migraine and something which felt suspiciously like an ulcer...At least, he supposed it was an ulcer. Ludwig used to say that to him all the time during the war—Feliciano gave him plenty of 'ulcers'...

If this was _'karma'_ for all the heck he'd given Germany, he didn't think it was very funny.

So he downed his last glass of wine, and maybe it was a little more than he could handle, because now either the world was beginning to tilt to one side or he was seconds away from falling out of his seat.

_Dio_...Romano would laugh if he could see him now. He'd never let wine get to him as suddenly as this. This was probably a new record.

"—satisfactory, I hope."

"_Sì_," he said, but only because he supposed the man was talking about the food. Satisfactory was a good way of describing it.

"You look tired."

"_Sì_." Because he was. Alcohol had that effect on him. Made him disconsolate and lethargic (or, at least, more so than usual). It wasn't too often that he allowed himself to go a bit tipsy, but he was willing to forgive himself for it tonight, given the circumstances. He'd stared death in the face, after all, and...

Well, the night was still young and the staring match wasn't exactly over yet. England could very well kill him on his way out to grab a taxi.

"—head back to the hotel, don't you think? I can call us a taxi."

...So glad he was psychic now too.

"_Mi dispiace_." He bowed his head a little, hardly noticing that the waiter was standing there him until the man leaned over to take his plate. "I'm not usually this...um, _absent_?"

England laughed in response. At least, it was a nice sort of laugh. In fact, it would be so much easier for Italy right now if England was more prone to laughing like _that_ instead of smiling as though he had a dark secret. "No worries, love. Good wine and exhaustion will do that to a man. These conferences of ours certainly leave their mark, don't they?"

"_Sì_." Yes, they did. Italy's siesta schedule was always thrown for a loop as a result of it, and Ludwig was always hesitant to _not-sleep_ sleep with him in any hotel room because he was usually afraid that the walls were too thin.

Honestly, next year Feliciano was just going to rent them a flat—or _something_. They both had a healthy appetite for that sort of thing, and he knew Ludwig didn't enjoy the dry spells any more than he did...

"You're quite lovely when you blush," England murmured. He was leaning forward again on his elbows, fingers steepled to hide his smirk. They couldn't hide the light in his eyes, though. "Does Germany make you blush like that?"

Maybe England was psychic now too. Or maybe Feliciano obsessed too much over his lover. "_Sì_. But I make him blush more often."

"I can imagine."

"Do you ever blush?"

"Occasionally, I suppose. I'm not too appealing when I blush."

"Francis told me he plucked your eyebrows once," Italy mumbled. "When you were drunk, I mean. He said you were beautiful."

"Francis will say anything if you ply him with enough liquor."

"...You don't like him very much, do you?"

"No, but that's the beauty of having a long and bloody history with the man. I don't have to like him. Ever."

"That's...sad." He glanced at his empty wine glass and then at his roses. If England was trying so hard to build a relationship with him, why couldn't he be bothered to make amends with his enemies? "He tries to be nice."

"He tries to be nice so that he can sleep around. After all, he's still trying to shag your brother even though he's friends with Spain, isn't he?"

Italy was surprised to hear him say that aloud in public. But then, these were England's people. He could easily have them tune out the conversation.

Still, Feliciano's could feel his blush creeping back onto his face.

"_Mio fratello_ doesn't...do _business_ with anyone." That was Feliciano's job anyhow, at least when it came down to doing the dirty work for the whole of 'Italy'. "And he only likes Spain. He won't ever sleep with Francis."

"My apologies." England cleared his throat. At least he had the decency to sound embarrassed. "I wasn't trying to insult your brother."

"I know."

"But you understand what I mean, don't you? That Francis and lechery usually come hand in hand?"

Well...okay, yeah. He kind of was. "_Sì_."

But where was England going with all this?

"I think, perhaps, we should head back. You mind if we share a taxi?"

"Not at all." He reached for his bouquet and then remembered something. "The bill—"

"Already dealt with it, love. So then, shall we?"

Taking the flowers in hand, he managed to slip out of his chair without falling. The world looked odd, almost _bent_ around the edges, but then England's arm was looping through his own and the man was pressed up comfortably against his right side. Italy sniffed his roses, lost himself a little in the aroma, and allowed himself to be led quietly all the way down and out of the business until they were standing on the curb, waiting for their ride.

England was humming it seemed—or murmuring, maybe, softly into Italy's ear. He couldn't make out what he was saying, precisely, but it was nice and gentle, and maybe he didn't mind pressing back up against the man even if he wasn't Germany, because both he and Germany understand there would never be an end to 'business', and maybe—

A shrill ring tore through that train of and startled the living daylights out of Feliciano. He didn't know what was worse at the moment, the fact that he had been terrified of his own phone or that he had actually been contemplating what it would be like if he slept with England.

His phone rang again and this time he answered it. "Hello?"

"_Where are you?"_

"...Somewhere," he murmured, because he couldn't remember _where_ exactly Kensington High Street was in London. "_Ma ora come ora non posso parlare._"

"_Huh? Perchè no?"_

"Because I think I need to lie down."

"_Bastard...Are you drunk?"_

"No."

"_Liar. I—"_ Romano paused long enough to swear at someone in the background. _"I thought you usually didn't drink unless the potato bastard was with you."_

"I'm not drunk," he said, because he really didn't think he was, despite how he was feeling. The fact that England stiffened ever so slightly beside him did nothing to quell his fears, though. If he wasn't drunk, what exactly was he? "I have a...a headache. Yeah. _Un mal di testa infernale_."

"_That tends to happen when you drink too much."_

"_Fraaaateeelllloooo..._"

"_Stop whining! Geez. Bastard...I wanted you to help me with these three stooges, but I guess that's not going to happen now, huh?"_

"I'll meet you at the hotel." It sounded like a good idea—England could hear him, anyway, so if he made plans to meet up with someone, the man couldn't kill him and dump his body, now could he? Which reminded him— "I'm with England. He's going to get me there safely. Isn't that _nice_~?"

England stiffened again, but that could've been because a taxi had pulled over for them now. Letting go of Feliciano's arm, the man stepped forward and held the door open for him.

"_Grazie_."

"_How was the food, anyway?"_

"Good."

"_There's a surprise."_

"I know." Sliding to the far end, he tucked himself into the corner, and England crawled in next to him before closing the door. "Would you call Ludwig for me? I really don't feel so well."

"_That's because you spoke too soon about the food, but yeah, I'll tell him about you after I get that potato freak to come down here and collect his equally freakish brother. Do you have any idea what that idiot did to me?"_

"No...what..." For a second there, he lost his train of thought. Why was he suddenly so sluggish? "_Fratello_...I—"

England's hands were warm against his own. One curled around his wrist as the other tugged the cell phone fluidly from between his fingers. "Romano? ...Yes...A bit knackered it seems, but I can take care of him...No...No, that won't be necessary...Yes, thank you. Have a good night."

Feliciano's head lulled over to one side until he was leaning against England's shoulder. The man didn't seem to mind it though. He closed Feliciano's phone with a quick snap and then it disappeared altogether, presumably into the man's pocket.

"I want...to call Ludwig."

"Ludwig's busy at the moment, love. I think it's best we put you to bed now, don't you?"

Bed sounded nice, actually. Yeah...bed. Then he could sleep this whole thing off...and water the roses...and Gilbert was going to be in so much trouble...and...and...

And then he drifted off completely.

In the arms of none other than Arthur Kirkland.

A/N: ...That was kind of abrupt, I know, but I wasn't expecting it either. I'm so sorry (*ducks head*). Anyhow, Easter Weekend prevented me from updating, so I made this chapter longer. I hope it makes up for the wait, darlings. ;)

**Important side-note**: I know I already said that the rating would probably waver, but I wanted to ask you first what you're actually comfortable with. I realize you could've stumbled across this story when you specifically set your filter to exclude 'M', so I can do one of two things here: either A) none of you actually care about the rating (not to say you want full blown smut, but talking about it in softer detail is fine, etc...); or B) _'fade black, please'_ in which case I would post the act itself in a separate post and tell you were to find it (on this website—unless you're following me on live-journal, in which case I'll leave that copy 'as-is'). Most of you seem to prefer option "A" so far, but I'm giving you another chance to voice your thoughts. I really don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable here.

**Translations:** (Again, special thanks to _**Red Hot Holly Berries**_)

"_fratello"_ ~brother (Italian)

"_Mi dispiace"_ ~I'm sorry (Italian)

"_Ma ora come ora non posso parlare."_ ~I can't talk to you right now (Italian)

"_Perchè no?"_ ~why not? (Italian)

"_Un mal di testa infernale_." ~one hell of a headache (Italian)

**Fun Facts:**

1) _"Ludwig made him promise he wouldn't get a rental..."_ ~I'm not actually sure what kind of drivers Italians are, but I know that in Germany, for example, they don't exactly have speed limits on their highways. I imagine it must be fun driving around over there...

2) _"No need to remind the man that the closest relationship they'd have this far was the kind reserved for enemies..."_ ~I wanted to see what the current relationship was like between England and Italy in the real world, and I found nothing. Literally, _nothing_. Wikipedia had a little blurb on the 'London Pact' they made way back in 1915, when England helped Mussolini (financially) get his nifty little political powers, but obviously that backfired spectacularly on the UK...Poor sod. *shakes head sadly*

3) _"You think it would be too difficult to try this with anyone else, don't you?"_ ~this stems from the episode where England eventually makes friends with Japan. Honestly, the way hetalia depicts all the countries, it's no wonder they only have one or two close friends.

4) _Germany and Italy_ ~I decided to check out what the speculation was for pairings on the TV Tropes website (message me if you want the specific link), and they've more or less decided that these guys are less than a step away from realizing they're an actual couple. I couldn't, in good conscience, ignore this fact, even though I'm writing an 'England/Italy' fic. The subtext is so glaring, it's practically blinding. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Again, the internet hasn't been too much of a friend to me lately, otherwise I would've updated this eons ago. In any case, thank you for the beautiful reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying this. ;)

**Title:** In the Shadow of Albion  
><strong>Rating:<strong> Maybe more on the R side this chapter? Call this a test, if you will...  
><strong>Pairing(s): <strong>England/Italy and other multiplepairings (quite literally); e.g., Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/South Italy, etc...  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_dark_!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don't know to what level of detail just yet; _possibly_ a smidgen on the dub-con-ish side of life, though)  
><strong>Fun Facts:<strong> As far as historical facts go, I'll try to explain everything over the course of the chapter, but if I sneak any inside jokes into the mix I'll point them out at the bottom of the page.  
><strong>Translations<strong>: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page (special to _**Red Hot Holly Berries**_ for the proper Italian, though, and for also correcting my French).  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
><em><strong>Summary:<strong>__ Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. And it's really too bad Italy's the only one that seems to notice anything's wrong with the old Empire..._

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

Feliciano had always been a vivid dreamer.

He didn't necessarily have an explanation as to why that was so, but he was certain it came hand in hand with having a good eye for art and an emotional range the length of the Pan American Highway. He was open to 'divine inspiration', whether it be to the voices of heaven or the inner workings of his subconscious mind, and he saw no reason why God should ever put an end to those beautiful muses. As long as there were dreams to be had and soul with which to express them, Feliciano would always be more than willing to lend his ear to them.

Tonight, though, those muses were restless.

There was no pinpointing the source of this particular inspiration, but there was warmth, and a soft voice, and insistent lips against his pliant mouth. It felt as though there was a fire in veins; as though something small but potent had warmed its way into the very fibres of his being and tossed him headfirst into a fit of passion. He was standing somewhere on the very precipice of realty, gazing out and beyond the plane of this existence to where time was endless and life was unconfined by space. He was furious and free—oh so very _free_...

He was more than just Veneziano Vargas. He was the Kingdom of _Italy_.

And he was lying in somebody's bed.

He woke first to the sound of running water, and then, as his eyes fluttered open, he perceived the first rays of sunlight streaming in through a crack in the curtains. He was bundled under a sea of blankets and had unconsciously pressed himself up against someone warm and solid. That fire in his veins had dulled to sharp little bursts, strong and heady like the rhythm of the heart after a man's first kiss—he couldn't help but slip a pale leg out from under the covers to hook ankles with who he thought was Germany.

He wouldn't have keened a little in the back of his throat if he had known otherwise, or tried to mold himself perfectly against the other man's hip, the way Ludwig enjoyed it when he was sprouting a similar problem.

"...You are _so_ not a virgin."

Italy screamed.

Or tried to, at least. Gilbert's hand shot out to cover his mouth before he could wake everyone on the floor, which was a blessing, he supposed, because his friends were already worried enough as is after his little outburst at yesterday's meeting. No need for them to think he was crazy...

"_Shh_, gorgeous, please." Shifting until he was leaning over Feliciano, Gilbert gingerly tugged the quilt down until Italy's leg was covered again. Dimly, Feliciano realized he was still wearing his boxers. "I swear to God, I wasn't trying to scare you. West's in the shower, _ja_? I just thought, what the heck, that stupid kid tried to hunt me down last night, and here I am now, laying on his bed, when he's just on the other side of the door... You get it, right? These thrills of mine might be cheap, but they're awesome either way you put it."

Feliciano wasn't entirely sure how _awesome_ it was to sleep in somebody else's bed (—or _safe_ for that matter, considering it was _Ludwig's_ that Gilbert had happened to slip into—), but he was willing to count his blessings where he found them, and as long as Francis never tried to pull that stunt on him, Feliciano was willing to forgive, more or less, anything the Bad Touch Trio did to him. It was a small victory...but a victory nonetheless.

In any case...

"How did you get in here?"

"I _might've _lifted your key from Antonio this morning." Gilbert twisted on the spot and sat up, leaning against the headboard for support. Crossing his hands behind his head, he looked incredibly relaxed for someone that had a death wish. "And he only had it because that little United Kingdoms guy gave it to him when he brought you back to the hotel... Apparently, you got so drunk you passed out."

Or, dear _Lord_. Not entirely a dream, then...

"I don't blame you, of course. Eating that man's food requires a little liquid courage... Didn't think you'd get _smashed_ over it, but whatever. You're still just as awesome in my books."

"_Grazie_," Feliciano mumbled, though he didn't feel as though he was hung-over. He was tired, sure, and maybe he couldn't quite remember what happened after he got into the car (—did he really make out with England, or was his mind playing tricks on him again?—), but he honestly didn't think he had had _that_ much wine. No more than England, certainly...

"Hey, gorgeous...you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

Feliciano stretched his legs out a little, enjoying the way the sheets felt against his bare calves. In all actuality, he felt _really_ good... "_Sì_. Ask away."

"Am I the last to know, about..._that, _because you...you really _aren't_ a virgin, right?"

It took him a moment, but eventually Italy smiled and reached over to pat Gilbert's arm sympathetically. That was the best he could do for the poor man.

"..._Verdammt_. Antonio and Francis wouldn't say anything, but I thought something was up because West's been so mellow lately, you know, like he's been getting laid..." The man's voice died off here. When Feliciano tilted his head to look at him, he saw that Gilbert was blushing. "I'm honestly not trying to offend you. Really, the only slut I know of is Francis, and that's never going to change. I'm just checking up on you, because, well...Romano mention that you looked like hell, and that's what friends do, and even if you're in love with West, I'm my brother's brother, so...yeah. Don't ever get drunk around Francis."

"I'm not offended," he laughed, which was the truth. He liked sex about as much as Francis did...actually, maybe he liked it _more_ than Francis did, because why else would the man be so promiscuous if he wasn't unsatisfied? Sure, Italy had slept with a few of his fellow nations here and there over the years, but that was business; what he had now with Germany was something else entirely...

Speaking of Francis, though, he was surprised the man hadn't taken the opportunity to boast. Not that it mattered much, he supposed. Most of his friends had already figured out that Italy had to have learned it _somewhere_...

He had to admit, though, he was kind of proud of Francis. The Frenchman had his flaws, but he was certainly a gentleman when it counted.

The sound of water dribbling against the shower wall slowed to halt, marking the end of their awkward meeting. Hefting himself up with a sigh, Gilbert proceeded to tip-toe his way over to the door. "This conversation never happened, right?"

"_Sì_."

"Knew I could count on you... By the way, your key's on the bedside table." The door creaked open as he slipped through. Turning back one last time to glance at Feli, he gave the Italian a wink. "I'll see you later, gorgeous..."

Smiling, Feliciano watched the door until lock clicked into place. Then he shoved the covers over onto the floor before stretching again, bowing his head back into the mountain of pillows just as Ludwig stepped out of the bathroom. And then he held the position for a second longer just because he knew it showed off the best of him, and because his libido hadn't really dwindled since he'd woken up, and, well...he really didn't care that Germany had already taken a shower, there was time enough for them to take another one later.

"_Guten Morgen_," Ludwig mumbled as he sat down on his side of the bed. He slid the top drawer of his bedside table open to search for something and stopped short when Feliciano reached over to trace the German's wet ribs with his fingertips.

_Mio Dio_, the man had muscle.

"Italy..."

"_Per favore_," he whined.

"...But...I just—"

"_Bitte_?"

Ludwig froze completely.

Experience had taught Feli that speaking German did things to the man that certainly worked to his advantage. Showing a little skin and keeping his lips firmly sealed also did the trick, but he already knew how this situation was going to turn out...

If he looked half as good as he felt, he'd already won the game.

As if on cue, Germany leaned down to kiss him once. Then twice. And, okay, maybe _again_, because there was really no resisting Italy when it came to things such as these. Seduction was the true source of Italy's power, after all, and he knew how to wield this weapon well.

"You are incredibly cruel for such a gentle man," Ludwig growled against his lips. "I wish I could tell someone, but then no one would believe me, now would they?"

Feliciano smiled into the next kiss, relaxing a little as Ludwig tugged him closer. Part of him ached, though, at the sound of those familiar words. To have no one believe him...

Would Ludwig believe him?

No..._No_. What was there to tell? He had a _hunch _really, that was all, and he'd fantasized about the man that frightened him. What did that make him? A cheat? Maybe... Maybe not... The last time Feliciano had been this in love was long before he had even known Germany existed.

"_Please_," he whispered against the other man's ear. Please help him, please save him, please _don't leave me, ever, because I love you, you know? I love you, I love you, I love you..._

"_Ich liebe dich_," Ludwig replied. And he meant it—Feliciano could tell—because it had taken the man years, and years, and _years_ to put actions to those words, but it had been well worth the wait. Feliciano had what he wanted now, and he wasn't about to just let it go.

For this one precious moment, there was peace.

That was all he could hope for.

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

Considering the nervous wreck he'd been yesterday, Feliciano was as cool as a cucumber when he took his seat at the conference table that morning. Ludwig was 'mellow'. After his second shower, he told Feliciano that they'd go out to dinner somewhere nice that evening and then retire early, walls bedamned, because if no one could hear what Francis was up to in the middle of the night, chances were nobody would hear them either.

Feliciano had no problem with that idea, so he nodded merrily, hooked arms with his lover, and tried to keep his thoughts off of England as they left the hotel.

Oh, but_,_ well...it was _hard_ not to think about him, especially considering what had happened last night. So after sitting in his seat for the first fifteen minutes or so, just after Ludwig had left to get them some coffee, he began wondering why he would ever allow himself get a little hot and bothered over someone other than his lover...

"Stop that," Romano muttered as he slapped Feliciano's hand away from his files. Unconsciously, he'd been tearing at the corners of the pages. "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me... Why did you drink so much last night?"

"I didn't," he mumbled. "I...I was ill."

Romano scowled at him for a moment, obviously weighing the truth of that statement, before he conceded with a small nod. "English food, I guess. But you left your stupid flowers with me, and that bastard _Spain_ couldn't be bothered to get a vase for them until this morning. I'm amazed they haven't wilted yet."

"Oh."

"Yeah, well, the moron's still hung-over, and he has your card key, I think. That freaking albino might've grabbed it...I'm not sure why I didn't rat him out to your potato bastard."

"Because you're too kind for that, Romano."

"As _if_. My idiot of a boss asked me not to...Now both of those poor bastards owe me one. I guess that has to count for something."

Patting his brother's hand affectionately, Feliciano smiled. Romano's love was such an odd, but beautiful, thing...

One of the twin doors slammed into the wall as someone breezed into the room, apologizing immediately afterward for having startling half the nations already present. Looking up, Feliciano recognized Mathieu as the young man slipped into his seat beside American, and offered his friend a small wave.

New France practically _beamed_ when he caught sight of Feliciano. He even looked more pleased when Alfred took notice of him and stopped mid-argument with Francis to turn and talk to his brother.

Obviously, things had taken a turn for the better as far as the North American brothers were concerned.

Too bad the same couldn't be said of England.

The second time the giant oak doors slammed open, no one paid any heed to the newest arrival. Francis, of course, arched an eyebrow as Arthur dropped into his usual seat, but said nothing when he realized the man wasn't interested in talking to him. Arthur was too busy boring his eyes into the back of Alfred's head as the young superpower proceeded to chat with his northern brother. It was the kind of look a man got when he was making a rather malicious decision concerning his enemies—the sort of the thing that usually included _death,_ if not something worse.

For a moment, Feliciano honestly considered drawing Alfred's attention to the man, but then it would hardly take Arthur half a second to drop his glare, and, really, Feliciano seemed to be the only one who noticed. Then again, he could just as easily take America aside during the break and maybe ask him how things were going between the two of them. And if Alfred seemed none the wiser to the man's apparent hatred for him, _maybe_ Feliciano could hint at the way Arthur was staring at him, and _maybe_—

That train of thought was effectively derailed when England turned his gaze on Feliciano. Not with hatred, of course, but Feliciano would've much rather preferred spite in comparison to whatever it was that was burning in the man's eyes now. And he was _smiling_ again (—Feliciano was starting to _loath_ that smile—) in a way that suggested Arthur had found something infinitely more interesting than Alfred to entertain himself with at the moment.

After a beat, Feliciano realized his was trembling. He was gripping the armrests of his chair hard enough to tear at the fabric with his fingernails. The back of his neck was covered in cold sweat; his chest was in a vice—it was reminiscent of the time he had signed the armistice against Germany and had met the man when he was marching north, cutting down anything that came between him and his land...

"—well. What is wrong with you?" Romano gave his a shoulder a hardy shove. "Hey, let go of the chair already. If you're going to get sick over everything, let me drag you out of here first."

He wanted to say something—'_yes'_, in particular—but he was having a hard enough time trying to remember how to breathe. England's eyes never left his. The man merely sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his lap, seemingly amused with Feliciano's candid display of sheer terror. Italy had seen a fair many things in his long, _long_ life, but here, sitting across the table from a supposed gentleman, he felt smaller than a human infant, as though all those years of experience hadn't prepared him in the least for what he was about to face today.

Part of him was aware that Romano was still trying to talk to him, though his brother's voice was muffled. The generally boisterous white noise of his fellow nations faded into the background as his world narrowed down to the man before him. And then England's lips moved, and Feliciano flinched, because he could hear the man _perfectly_ clear though that terrible silence, as though he _was_ the world, and all that was said and done in this room revolved completely around _him_...

"_Good morning, love."_

A/N: Arthur's really too devious for anyone to figure out what exactly it is he's up to. I guess Italy has his worked cut out for him, huh...

**Translations:** (Again, because the internet was down for so long, no one has had a chance to correct me. Please feel free to tell me if I've got anything wrong).

"_Mio Dio" _~ 'my god' (Italian)

"_Ja"_ ~ 'yes' (German)

"_Bitte"_ ~ 'please' (German)

"_Guten Morgen"_ ~ 'good morning' (German)

"_Ich liebe dich" _~ 'I love you'

**Fun Facts:**

1) _"...and an emotional range the length of the Pan American Highway..."_ ~if my sources serve me right, the Pan American Highway is the longest 'motorable' road in the world. It stretches all the way from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska to the very bottom tip of South America, presumably Ushuaia, Argentina. There is about an 87km break in the road called the 'Darien Gap', and it's about the only place you _can't_ actually travel by motor vehicle.

2) _Gilbert..._ ~yes, he's _so_ awesome he needs his own paragraph. And he _is_ awesome, just wait and see. That man's got a plan...(but I can't tell you about it yet)

3) "_Sure, Italy had slept with a few of his fellow nations here and there over the years, but that was business; what he had now with Germany was something else entirely..."_ ~seriously, _seriously_, Himaruya made most of the nations _men_—and _then_ he decided to drop the innuendo bomb on his little Hetalia world. I'm not the only one who sees this, right? I mean, apparently Spain proposed to a couple of nations (France and Veneziano included), Russia's always asking to 'become one' with somebody, and France is...France. Tell me I'm not crazy...

4) _"Romano's love was such an odd, but beautiful, thing..."_ ~it just is. I know he likes to argue with people quite a bit in the Hetalia shows/web-comics, but you already know I like digging a little deeper as far as all the characters are concerned. He loves so hard, it hurts *cackles*

5) _America and Canada_ ~we did actually come to terms over the Arctic eventually. Legally, any vessel that is conducting research _must_ warn a country when they plan on cruising through their waters. The Americans decided then, just to be nice, they wouldn't send any ships/subs/what-have-you through the Northwest Passage _unless_ they were conducting some sort of research. In that sense, the Americans are asking permission without having to ask for 'permission' permission...It's odd, but it works.

6) _"...it was reminiscent of the time he had signed the armistice against Germany and had met the man when he was marching north, cutting down anything that came between him and his land..."_ ~I could talk all day about this, but I feel that his once-twisted relationship with Germany is the reason Feliciano thinks he's a cheat because of England. I honestly don't think anyone's had a good, solid, hurt-free relationship in Hetalia...except maybe Austria and Hungary...but then, they're divorced now, aren't they?


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** My sincerest apologies—my laptop broke, so I sent it in to get fixed, and that took nearly forever...I know, _I know_—I need to invest in a USB device, or something...

In any case, thanks again for all the beautiful reviews! You guys are really great in telling me what works or not. I seriously have to thank you for all your invaluable help. ;)

**Title:** In the Shadow of Albion  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R

**Pairing(s): **England/Italy and other multiplepairings (quite literally); e.g., Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/South Italy, etc...  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_dark_!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don't know to what level of detail just yet; _possibly_ a smidgen on the dub-con-ish side of life, though)  
><strong>Fun Facts:<strong> As far as historical facts go, I'll try to explain everything over the course of the chapter, but if I sneak any inside jokes into the mix I'll point them out at the bottom of the page.  
><strong>Translations<strong>: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page (special to _**Red Hot Holly Berries**_ for the proper Italian, though, and for also correcting my French).  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
><em><strong>Summary:<strong>__ Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. And it's really too bad Italy's the only one that seems to notice anything's wrong with the old Empire..._

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

Once, when he was younger, he had been good friends with an old priest of the San Giorgio Maggiore. Quite often on those long and sunny Venetian days, they would sit together in the church and talk of life—trivial little things, really, though most often their conversations tended to wander to Romano and Spain. Truth be told, some of his fondest memories were of the old man and his soft, wrinkled face, the way his skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes and lips whenever he smiled down at him. He supposed that that was what having a 'father' felt like, someone who understood his troubles and offered him support when he needed it the most.

Feliciano had enjoyed having a 'father'.

He once asked the man, though, if he thought that '_he'_, Feliciano, was at all fortunate at having been born as an eternal being. He knew that there were men would simply kill for his gift—to observe time, but never age; to fall at the hand of your enemy, only to rise again, undead—wasn't it a _blessing_? Wasn't it the greatest thing anyone could ever ask for...?

Wasn't he..._lucky_?

The man merely turned to him and asked, '_But are you happy_?'

...In those days, Feliciano kept his thoughts mostly to himself (—not everyone needed to know the very life and blood of their nation was having a crisis, after all—), but kneeling behind the screen of a confessional, with God overhead and a friend close by, he bared himself to that old man and asked if it was a sin that he wanted to die. He could observe time, but was unable to _feel_ it, being immune to a touch that could allegedly heal all scars; he could fall in battle and tear himself bodily from the clutches of death, but the pain he suffered was no less than that of a mortal man and the wounds afflicted upon him had no guarantee of ever fading... He was connected to all his people, felt their agony as though it was his own—and when the enemy won, he was _still _there, to see, and hear, and _feel_ the consequences of their defeat, to be conquered, trampled, pillaged, and raped—and he was tired of this life without end, of all the trials and tribulations of his timid, little people, and the swell of adversaries spread along the fine line that was his border...

The priest told him that heaven was waiting for all of God's children, and that Italy, himself, had a place in that Holy Kingdom. Someday, he would see it. Someday, he _too_ would be free...

Someday.

Someday...

Feliciano missed that foolish, old man, but he often wondered if he himself was the imprudent one. He had seen the worst the world had to offer, but he had also seen the best. There had been, after all, times when he experienced what could only be described as unparallel delight.

He had much to be thankful for.

And he always would.

But sitting where he was, pinioned beneath England's gaze, whatever trace of happiness life had afforded him that morning was immediately sapped from his core. He felt useless and weak—_miserable_—and just as easily disheartened, as though no measure could be taken to protect himself from the impending storm. Here he sat, _'Hetalia'_, before the man that would be the end of him...

England leaned back in his seat, folding his hands over his lap as he offered Feliciano a small and seemingly simplesmile. The man knew what Feliciano was thinking—knew that he had already won. Whatever it was he wanted he would have it, and there was nothing the Italian could do to stop him.

"—you _bastard_."

Startled, Feliciano almost missed the fleeting brush of lips against the corner of his mouth, a wisp of affection he knew all too well from the many long and tender nights spent lying in his lover's arms. It was like the spark at the end of a candlestick when the wick first catches the flame, a fierce flicker of light that ignites the senses and chases the chill from the soul. It was potent; almost _electric_.

And it stilled the frantic flutter of his heart...

It was times like these that he was reminded of how much he loved Ludwig.

"I said it would work," Spain chuckled off to his side. "Love conquers all, eh, my little tomato?"

Refusing to tear his gaze away from the blushing German, almost as though he actually believed the man would wither beneath his scowl, Romano made a vaguely irritated noise before waving his lover off. "I told that potato freak not to touch him if he valued his life, and he _didn't_ listen. What does that tell you, hm?"

"...That he loves Feli more than he fears you?"

"Oh, you _stupid, _little—"

Feliciano decided to tune out Romano's conversation before his brother got into the thick of his colourful tirade, choosing instead to lean into the warm hand on his shoulder. Ludwig didn't kiss him in public too often. The man could be affectionate, of course, but Germany was reserved at the best of times; completely withdrawn at the worst. To say Feliciano was surprised would've been an understatement.

All the same, he was grateful for it.

"Maybe you should lie down," the man murmured, scanning the room to see if anyone was watching. Oddly enough, no one seemed to be paying any attention to them whatsoever, even England, who had taken a sudden interest in the conversation between the two North American brothers.

"But I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me." He _almost_ sounded harsh, but Feliciano could hear the underlying concern. Their love was such a funny thing. "You can afford to miss a day. I'll take care of business."

"_No_..." He didn't mean to whine, honestly, but he couldn't stand the thought of being alone. Who was to say England wouldn't hunt him down during the break, maybe chase him all the way back to the hotel? Not that Feliciano knew what the man might do, but he had to make sure all his bases were covered—first and foremost, that Ludwig was never more than an arm's length away. "I don't have to talk today. Let me stay...Please?"

Ludwig frowned.

Feliciano tried very hard to bat his eyelashes without overdoing it...

And then he tried a little harder.

"...The moment I suspect _anything_ out of the ordinary, you will return to the hotel room. Is that understood?"

"_Sì_"

"And you promise not to fight me on this one?"

"_Sì_."

If it was at all possible, Ludwig frowned even harder. "This is too easy."

"I don't want to be difficult..." which was the truth; he honestly didn't. "...but if I have to leave, you're coming with me."

"Now, _why_ doesn't that surprise me?"

"Because you know me too well."

"_Ja_. '_Right'_. Not nearly well enough."

"Smile," Italy commanded. Then he reached over and poked Ludwig in the arm good-naturedly. "You're just riled up because you kissed me in public."

"You wouldn't respond to anything else," the man argued (—but he was blushing again, which was always a good sign). "And as far as 'responses' go, you still haven't explained to me why you've been anxious lately."

"Pasta withdrawal."

"...I don't believe you."

"Everything has to do with pasta." ...Mostly. "I'll be happier when I'm home."

"_Ja_," the man grumbled, this time in assent. "Three more days...and then freedom from this madhouse."

"And pasta," he sighed happily. Crossing his legs, Italy let his foot brush against Ludwig's shin in an attempt to rile him up again.

It worked.

Clearing his throat, Ludwig reached under the table and gave Feliciano's knee a hardy squeeze, one that told him to _behave_ but was no less suggestive than Italy's own behaviour. "I trust we'll head to Rome after the conference. And your brother will be...?"

"In Madrid. With Antonio."

"I see." Just barely, Feliciano could make out a small smile on the corner of the man's lips. "_Sehr gut_."

"_Ja, sehr gut_," Italy mimicked, but only because Ludwig couldn't hope to hide his smile when he tried to speak German, and _when_ Ludwig smiled, it eased away a little of Feliciano's fear, leaving, instead, as odd sense of warmth and comfort in its place.

Reaching across Ludwig's lap, Feliciano took hold his lover's hand and eased back into his seat. A sort of hush fell over the room as Austria took the floor, and Italy relaxed as they began the same old song and dance they'd been playing since the beginning of the UN.

He could handle this, he thought.

Even if he could feel England's eyes boring into him again...

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

When the time came for lunch, Feliciano was truly indecisive as to what he was supposed to do. He wholly intended to stick by Ludwig's side, but when Yao gave the German a meaningful look (—one that suggested that he wanted to speak with him, _now_ preferably and in private—) he was a little at loss as to who he could cling to next. He was sorely tempted to chase after Romano (—although his brother was glaring daggers at his Spanish lover, and that never boded well for anyone in the immediate vicinity—), but before he could budge from his seat, his small party had already abandoned him. So there he stood..._alone_.

_Again_, damnit.

Fidgeting with the cuff of his right sleeve, he scanned the room for Poland, France, Hungary—anyone he could tag along with without rousing suspicion. He was amicable with almost everyone present (though half of room had already flooded out into the hall as the other half continued their respective arguments) and he couldn't see England anywhere... Honestly, though, he didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, because the last time he lost sight of the man, he—

—very nearly _squealed_ when someone's hand dropped unceremoniously onto his shoulder. Then he spun so sharply on his heel, he almost collided with the table.

Canada blinked at him in surprise.

"M-Matthew?"

"I was going to ask if you wanted to have lunch with us, but I'm starting to wonder if someone should take you to the hospital instead... Are you alright?"

"No—I...I..._'us'_?" Feliciano glanced over Matthew's shoulder, spotting Alfred as he waltzed around the table to join them. "Oh—_sì_, _sì..._Somewhere they serve pasta, perhaps?"

"Certainly... Actually, I'm pretty sure Al knows just the place."

"I know everything," the man in question elaborated, just before he leaned over to drape an arm across Matthew's shoulders. "I found a place last year, and I'm pretty sure the food is genuine, because the head chef is this little old lady that doesn't speak a word of English. Not to mention her cooking is to _kill_ for, man. It's gotta be Italian..."

He felt his spirits rise at the promise of good food, despite the fact that he had absolutely no idea where England had gone. So he nodded politely and followed the brothers out onto the street, glancing over his shoulder every once in a while just to see if they were being followed...

The two westerners bickered good-naturedly the short walk there, arguing over their respective governments and sports. Matthew's demeanour, however, was a complete flip from the last time they'd met—he'd gone from seemingly exhausted by his brother's behaviour to open and relaxed. It was a welcomed sight (there was no denying that) but it tickled something in the back of Feliciano's mind and he couldn't stop himself before he asked—

"I guess England's not going to haunt your Passage now, _sì_?"

Matthew turned to him, blushing, just as Alfred stopped in front of a small wooden door. Clearing his throat, the Canadian offered Feliciano a weak smile. "I told Arthur he didn't have to worry about me anymore, you know...'cause...I'm older now, but..."

"Arthur doesn't know when to back down," Alfred supplied. Tugging the door of the restaurant open, he stood aside to let the Canadian pass through first, following in after Feliciano. "The idiot is trying to make a fool of me again. Right, Mattie?"

"You are a fool, Al."

"_Thank you_—but that's not my point. He didn't think my apology to you was sincere."

"That's probably because you still haven't apologized to him over whatever it was you said to him last month."

"Hell if I can even remember what _that_ was about—for three, ma'am." He paused to flash the hostess a warm smile, narrowing his eyes curiously at his brother as soon as she turned her back. "And do you want to know what _he_ did? He—"

"I don't, actually."

"—locked himself up inside his basement for a week. And then, when I dropped by to see if he was _still_ _alive_, I found out from one of his royal people that he's with _Francis_."

"He's allowed to do that, Alfred." Matthew held up his hand to stop his brother from continuing their conversation, choosing instead to follow the hostess to the little table she'd picked for them.

As soon as they were seated, though, Alfred picked up right where they'd left off.

"Francis, Mattie—_Francis_. And he spent a _week_ in Paris."

"He tends to do that from time to time. They have a history, you know."

"Yeah, but holed up in some hotel room? That's just a little too reminiscent of the days before Artie and I were on good speaking terms."

At this point, Matthew looked genuinely confused...then he appeared to have an _'oh'_ moment. "You're _jealous_, aren't you?"

"Am not."

"Uh, _yeah_, you are."

"_No_, I'm not...'Concerned' and 'jealous' are too entirely different beasts," Alfred grumbled. Then he turned his head to smile down at their seemingly forgotten companion, trying to look innocent in his deposition. "Right, Italy?"

Taking up his glass of water, Feliciano tried to look uninterested in their awkward conversation. He couldn't deny, though, that it was beginning to shed a little light on England's odd behaviour. "Uh..._sì_?"

"I mean, he's lecherous, right? You've slept with him, haven't you?"

Italy choked on his water.

"_Al_, don't be rude."

"I'm _not_. I'm just asking...Besides, who knows? Maybe Francis put a spell on him."

Arching one of his eyebrows in disbelief, Matthew snorted in mild amusement. "I seriously doubt that. I can tell you, from experience, that anyone would choose Francis over you, Al, because he happens to be better in the sack."

Alfred blinked.

And then he just kind of sat there, dumbfounded... It was the same look Kiku had when Feliciano told him he tended to sleep in the nude.

Feliciano smiled behind his glass before talking another sip of water

"Seriously, Matt..." Blushing, Alfred started to fiddle with his fork, gently tapping it against the table top. "...He's better than me?"

"Why are you even asking?"

"Because last night—"

"—_So_, what's good Feliciano? I've always been kind of partial Fettuccini Alfredo."

"But you—"

"_Al_." Matthew frowned, and it wasn't a pleasant look at all, Feliciano realized. "We are _not_ having this conversation in front of company. Understood?"

Smiling, Alfred picked up his menu. "You sure? You were pretty vocal about how—"

"_Alfred_," his brother snapped. "We just made peace. Drop it."

"Fine, fine...but I'd still like to know—" Matthew opened his mouth to protest, but Alfred held up a finger to stop him. "—what's good here, Feli?"

"Anything," Feliciano replied.

"Seriously?"

"_Sì_." He winked. "It's Italian."

A/N: ...Did this chapter seem to end a little abruptly to you? I had a dickens of a time finishing and editing this it because I've been away from it so long (again, my apologies). Honestly, tell me if I should maybe rewrite it, even if it's simple because the flow feels off or you spotted a few grammar mistakes... Anywho—

**Translations**: (No new Italian/French today, so my darling translator(s) is off the hook) ;)

"_Sehr gut_" ~ 'very good' (German)

"_Ja_" ~ 'yes' (German)

**Fun Facts:** (which appear to be lacking today...)

1) _The Church of San Giorgio Maggiore..._ ~stands on an island of the same name in Venice, Italy. The first church of the island was actually built in 790, back when North Italy would've been called 'the Papal States', but, thanks to earthquakes and whatnot, the present day church hadn't been 'completed' until roughly 1575. According to what I've heard, it's undergone some changes (i.e. its campanile fell in 1774 but was rebuilt in 1791), but it's just as beautiful now as it was then.

2) _The priest_... ~I imagine Italy must be at least a little religious. The Hetalia Wikipedia says that the Vatican is an old man that happens to be at odds with Feliciano and Romano, but they get along well enough anyway.

3) _Hetalia_... ~means 'Hopeless Italy'. Seriously. No joke.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Again, thank you for all the beautiful reviews! And I apologize for the late update. Life's been a little busy for me lately. ;)

**Title:** In the Shadow of Albion  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R

**Pairing(s): **England/Italy and other multiplepairings (quite literally); e.g., Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/South Italy, etc...  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_dark_!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don't know to what level of detail just yet; _possibly_ a smidgen on the dub-con-ish side of life, though)  
><strong>Fun Facts:<strong> As far as historical facts go, I'll try to explain everything over the course of the chapter, but if I sneak any inside jokes into the mix I'll point them out at the bottom of the page.  
><strong>Translations<strong>: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page (special to _**Red Hot Holly Berries**_ for the proper Italian, though, and for also correcting my French).  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
><em><strong>Summary:<strong>__ Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. And it's really too bad Italy's the only one that seems to notice anything's wrong with the old Empire..._

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

He was genuinely surprised to find a good, Italian cook in London. It wasn't entirely fair to say that England's people _didn't_ know how to prepare a suitable meal (after all, their breakfasts weren't something he could openly laugh at), but when the heart yearned for home, there was only one place Feliciano could find it and that was in the cozy little kitchen of an Italian woman. So he ordered some fine wine for his guests and made a few inquires about the menu, and in no time soon he found himself seated before a steaming bowl of pasta that was nothing less than a piece of art.

After his third bowl, the kindly old woman that had prepared their meal came to see who it was exactly that was eating her kitchen clean, and, immediately upon seeing him, asked if he was Italian. He nodded and smiled, because he certainly _was_, though he wasn't about to tell her that she was standing before the very embodiment of her Italian values, no matter how badly he wanted to let her know how pleased he was that she was spreading her delightful cooking across the globe. He didn't want to give her a heart attack, after all.

Not like how England seemed to delight in scaring him senseless...

She eventually confessed that she felt she knew him from somewhere, and, like any good Italian, made sure that both he and his companions had been fed to their fill before leaving the restaurant, completely satiated, with a hearty tip tucked under his napkin on the table. Feliciano blew her a kiss before stepping out the door and quietly blessed the homely restaurant before beginning his long and weary trek up the road to the conference, listening idly as Matthew and Alfred began arguing over what he assumed to be the results of Canada's latest elections.

Arriving back at the centre with maybe fifteen minutes to spare, Feliciano decided to dawdle in lobby in lieu of following the westerner's back upstairs, jumping onto one of the couches by the window instead where he could sit peacefully by himself and watch Poland as he chatted animatedly with one of the receptionists. He would work his back up to the conference room when he was ready—he just needed a little time to collect his thoughts, merely a moment or two, really, to compose himself before diving back into the fray. He wasn't expecting a miracle of course—it wasn't as though he could _change_ England by will alone, but he'd learned how to evade the man during the war, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was home again, practically a _world_ from his latest enemy. And then all would be well again, because 'Italy' was his turf, and because England really had no excuse to pop up around every corner in Rome like some sort of twisted fantoccini shade.

Rubbing his arms, Feliciano fought the rising urge to shiver. Just thinking of the man gave him the chills. Like calling upon the devil, you never knew when he would accept the invitation.

Not too unlike now, he supposed.

"You'll have to forgive me," the man in question laughed as he slipped onto the couch across from Feliciano. Then he crossed his legs and folded his hands over his lap, as smoothly he was wont to do, and then smiled benignly when he realized Feliciano was a little at loss for words (—not that he should've been too surprised of course, given the man's behaviour thus far—). "I meant to track you down earlier, love, but I was occupied this morning. I trust you enjoyed your lunch though?"

"..._Sì_."

"Splendid. I had also made plans to invite you to dinner tonight, but Ludwig let it slip that you'd be otherwise engaged...Perhaps tomorrow then?"

"Maybe," he murmured. And then he thought, _what_ _the_ _heck_, if he was going to make any progress understanding this strange affair, he might as well get to the bottom of it now. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Ask away, love."

"I want to know the real reason you want to purse this..._relationship_. I really have nothing to offer."

"Offer?"

"Yes, to you."

"...You shouldn't sell yourself so short." England's smiled faded, though it exposed disappointment rather than the solemnity or concern Feliciano was accustomed to seeing whenever he said such things. "Tell me, Veneziano...are you open to change?"

Choosing his words wisely, Feliciano took a moment to mull over that question before saying, "I am, I think. At least when I _need_ to change."

England laughed. Sharp and brief, like a quick jab to the gut. "Very good, love. I suppose, then, that I can be frank with you?"

"'_Frank'_?"

"Open—_honest_. It means I would like to tell you exactly what's on my mind."

"Then, of course," he replied, though he was really dreading the answer.

His hands were shaking now.

He clasped one over the other on his lap and held on tight.

"I find you intoxicating," England declared, though his confession sounded more like a fact of life than a compassionate plea, lacking the general sincerity one would expect to hear given the situation. It put Italy on edge, to say the least. "I've barely even touched you and already I want more."

Feliciano opened his mouth to speak. No words were forthcoming, though. No surprise there, of course—he hadn't heard such a thing from anyone in a long time. Ludwig, of course, never said it quite like that back when they were starting off, but the German man had always been better at expressing himself through actions rather than words. He _showed_ Feliciano that he was desired. England, on the other hand, merely stated it, as though he was a believer of unions born of cold indifference or passion void of soul—of the _maybe_-love, the true antichrist of romance...

Italy felt as though he didn't belong to this backward world of England's.

It terrified him.

"...Are you frightened, Veneziano?"

Feliciano opened his mouth to reply, but again he was rendered speechless. And all because of the curl of that man's lips, the _smug_ look on his face as Feliciano seemingly accepted defeat. It just...it wasn't _fair_.

Nervously, he felt his posture slipping as he slumped back into his seat.

"Do I alarm you?" England continued, seeing that he had the Italian right where he wanted him now. "Does it really come to you as such a surprise that I want to sle—"

"_Mon cher_, we're late."

Feliciano blinked.

England's face turned a little red. "Oh, for the love of _God_, Francis—"

"_Tsk, tsk_, _mon petit_—as the host of this little soiree, I thought _you_ of all people would be punctual."

"I _am_ punctual, you _twat_. I still have _five_ bloody minutes!"

"Elevator's broken," Francis said by way of fact. "And unless you're diet's improved since the last time I dined here, you will need more than '_five minutes'_ to scurry up all those stairs. Now, _shoo_... Feli and I need a moment."

"In case you hadn't _noticed_, Veneziano and I were in the middle of a discussion."

"_Oui_, but I have a message for him." Slipping onto the armrest of Feliciano's couch, Francis inclined his head toward the Italian and winked. "And Feli does so love his Big Brother, _non_?"

"_Sì._"

"Very good—now, _Arthur_..." –with the flick of his wrist, Francis waved the man off. England, of course, didn't immediately move, but after a quick flicker of his eyes in Feliciano's direction he relented and rose from his seat. "..._Merci_."

"Belt up, _frog_, and get your arse upstairs before we begin, or so help me, _God..._"

"Very well," Francis muttered, dismissing the man as he wandered off toward the stairwell. England glanced back over his shoulder to throw one last bitter look at his long-time enemy and foe, Francis, before disappearing altogether, and then they were alone...

Feliciano was...in _awe._

Why the hell wasn't _he_ able to do something like that?

"_Mon chaton_, I will be brief."

Feliciano relaxed into his seat as the tension seeped from his body, completely and utterly _relieved_ to be finally liberated of the man's presence. "What can I do for you?"

"_Non_. It is what _I_ can do for you." And with the gentle roll of his wrist and the relaxing of his fist, Francis produced a cell phone from thin air—_Ludwig's_ cell phone, to be more precise, because Feliciano recognized the complexity of the small device, a complexity that was shared among many of the man's inventions and had successfully prevented Feliciano from fiddling with any of them in the last couple of decades (—barring the one time Feliciano destroyed, but that had been an accident—). "Dear Gilbert visited you this morning, did he not?"

"Oh, _yes_." He snatched the phone up in delight, but not before wondering why the Prussian had resolved to lift it from their room in the first place. "What did he do with it?

"Nothing. He thought it would be amusing if he sent a few _vulgar_ texts to your lover's superiors, but has not yet had the chance."

Well, _that_ was certainly a relief. There was never really any telling how far Gilbert would go with his antics, but Feliciano had seen the aftermath of his mischief before and knew the backlash that could've been waiting for Ludwig if he had succeeded.

"Ludwig doesn't know yet," Feliciano murmured as he pocketed the phone. His lover had been searching for it that morning, but they'd been running a little late after...well, he didn't exactly need to elaborate on that point, but Ludwig would believe him if Feliciano said he'd grabbed it on the way out. In fact, the little fiasco had just given him an idea... "Can you tell Gilbert that I want to talk to him—and that he owes me one now. Unless he wants me to _tell_, of course..."

"Very well, _mon petit_." Elbowing him gently, the way he always did whenever he was proud, Francis graced him with another wink. "He would do well to realize that you are not as helpless as you appear, _non_?"

No, not really, but he wasn't all that proactive when it came to revenge, whether he was fighting a war or getting even with someone in return for a little spat. That was more of Lovino's way of doing things, actually (not to forget his mafia), and besides, Ludwig usually took care of anyone that was bothering Feliciano, regardless of whether or not the Italian asked for his help or not.

That was just the way Feliciano was, he supposed.

Not today, though.

"_Grazie_, _fratello_. That was very kind of you."

"Oh, you know..." Francis waved his hand for emphasis, though Feliciano had no idea what he was referring to. "...and, well...I must be going now."

The man made to leave, but Feliciano rested his hand on Francis's arm before the man could abandon his perch on the armrest. "Are you alright?"

'_You haven't even tried to hit on me yet...'_ Now that he thought about it, though, Francis hadn't been hitting on much of _anyone_ lately, at least during their meetings.

"I am..._'under the weather'_, I suppose...No need to spread my _misere_."

"England too," Feliciano added. "He hasn't been himself lately."

"Believe me, _Feli_, that man is absolutely _miserable_ at least twice a day."

"America said they had a fight."

"They always fight." Francis scowled. Then he stood up slowly and glanced at the stairwell. "To be fair, _Angleterre_ is not at fault. He came to me in such a _state_, Feli, you would hardly believe it was him."

"Really?"

"_Oui_. So angry and sad... And _wild_. We spent every day in bed—it was _magnifique_!—but then he left to prepare for all of _this_, and now...and now I..."

"Tell me," Feliciano breathed. Just a suggestion, really, nothing more than a _hint_ of a plea, but he _needed_ it. He needed it so badly, because whatever had happened between England, America, and France before the meeting was effecting the Brit's behaviour toward Feliciano today, and he was _more _than ready to get to the bottom of it.

He just wanted to be at peace again.

Francis took a step toward the stairwell. But then he paused.

He turned to Feliciano, looking a little sad, and tried to force a smile. "It feels as though something is missing, _mon cher_, though I cannot say what it is. And now, for the first time in a long time, all I want is to be alone." He laughed a little, though it was strained. "How absurd is that? _Moi—Les pays de l'amour—alone_?"

"I understand." And he did. It would be as though Italy was asked to give up his art, or his cuisine, or his _romance_. He would be left with nothing, really . He'd be...

_Hollow_.

Bowing his head, the Frenchman walked briskly toward the stairwell. And then he was gone.

Leaving Feliciano alone with his thoughts.

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

Ludwig had asked him several times if he was still up for tonight, to which he had always replied that he _was_. It took a kiss that turned the very tips of the German's ears pink to drive the message home, but it was totally worth it to see Ludwig worry his way about the hotel room in a fluster before jumping into the shower. Feliciano adored that about him, actually, the way he only seemed to lose control when he was in the Italian's company...

Feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, Feliciano tried to derail that train of thought as he opened one of the suitcases and pulled out a few things. As soon as the water started running, though, he remembered one of the finer details of his plan and whipped out his cell phone, dialling up an old friend.

"_...I wonder why you couldn't be this cruel during the war. We might've actually won."_

"Hello Gilbert." Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, he manoeuvred two suits out onto the bed and then took a step back to compare them. "Francis let it slip about the cell phone."

"_Ja, but it was only a joke...You still haven't told him, have you?"_

"No."

"_Awesome."_

"Not really," he corrected. With his free hand, he grabbed the ties he'd picked out for each suit and tossed them aside. Ludwig would have to learn to unbutton his collar for once. "I want you to do something for me."

"_Like what?"_

Feliciano paused in consideration. Did he really want to do this?

...Yes.

He most certainly _did_.

"I want you to spy on England for me."

"_..."_

"...Gilbert?"

"_Sorry, that just sounded too awesome to be true. Do you mind if I ask why?"_

"I..." Well now, wasn't _that_ a loaded question. "I'm worried about him. He wants to strengthen the relationship between us, but I think he's..._unwell_."

" '_Unwell' how?"_

"Oh, um...'insane'?"

"_Ha. That's funny."_

"I'm _serious_...He's kind of scary."

"_No kidding. After all, the two of you were enemies less than a century ago. Not to mention, I don't know anyone who his eyebrows __**haven't **__freaked out just yet, but whatever—I think it's only natural that it should take a while for the two of you to warm up to each other."_

Frustrated, Feliciano began gnawing on the inside of his cheek. "Does this mean you won't do it?"

"_Are you kidding me? This is right up my alley, gorgeous!"_

Which was the absolute truth, because mischief was Gilbert's forte (—disregarding the fact that Ludwig always found out about his tricks sooner or later, because, well, Ludwig was _Ludwig_ and the man had been subject to Gilbert's pranks for centuries).

All in all, Feliciano trusted him.

"Follow him tonight and call me in the morning."

"_Consider it done."_

"_Grazie_."

"_Just don't tell Ludwig, because, you know...I'm not supposed to be abroad right now."_

"I know." Tilting his head to one side, he decided he liked the Armani better. "You almost blew up a bottle factory."

"_**Not**__ intentionally...And besides, it was an 'abandoned' bottle factory. Big difference, man."_

Feliciano shrugged. Not as though Gilbert could see him, but whatever. "Good luck, Gilbert. And stay safe."

"_Will do, beautiful."_

"And Gilbert."

"_Ja?"_

"Whatever happens...don't confront him. Okay?"

"_...Odd, but I'm game. Is there any particular reason why I can't?"_

'_Because he might kill you,'_ Feliciano thought, though he honestly had no idea where that came from. Despite how far England had already driven himself, it didn't seem as though he was about to suddenly whip out a gun and shoot someone. Nevertheless, there was no telling what it would take to set the man off.

He just wanted Prussia to live to see another day.

"I don't want him to know that I'm spying on him. That's all."

"_Fine. No heroics."_

"_Grazie_. And goodnight, Gilbert."

"_Goodnight, gorgeous. Have fun."_

He waited for Gilbert to hang up first, and then tossed his cell phone onto the bed next to Ludwig's suit. This is was it, now. If England discovered what he was up to, there was no telling what the man would do. Either Feliciano succeeded or perished—there were no other options.

Feeling a little weak in the knees, he sat down on the corner of the bed and stared at the bathroom door. The water was still running for the shower and he could see the steam curling out through the slit at the bottom. A hot shower, then... Huh. Ludwig usually preferred them short and cold.

Then something dawned on him.

Shrugging off his clothes, he slipped into the bathroom without knocking.

He knew an invitation when he saw one.

A/N: Ack! So late! I know...*hangs head in shame* I've been busy lately. I apologize. It won't happen again!

Anyhow, thanks for reading!

**Translations:**(My darling translator is free of fault this time. I didn't confide in her first before posting (Oops). Feel free to correct me.)

"_Mon chaton"_ ~ 'my kitten' (French)

"_Misere"_ ~ 'misery' (French)

"_Les pays de l'amour"_ ~ 'the country of love' (French)

**Fun Facts:** (Sorely lacking in this department today. Sorry, my sweets)

1) _"...but when the heart yearned for home, there was only one place Feliciano could find it and that was in the cozy little kitchen of an Italian woman..."_ ~ or Italian 'man'. Either way is fine. It's just a saying that my Italian friends have, so I thought I'd throw it in there today. (Dear Lord, do I ever enjoy Italian food...Makes me hungry just thinking about it...)

2) _Gilbert... ~_serves his purpose, now. And I imagine he _would_ be pretty talented with his pranks, considering how long he's been annoying Ludwig. And since he still _exists_ without us humans realizing it, he must be damn good at keeping himself under cover. (That's my reasoning, anyhow)


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I apologize for the lack of communication! I was gone on holidays *bows head*. I will, however, be replying to your earlier reviews ASAP. I just thought I'd post this first to say hello...

**Title:** In the Shadow of Albion  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R

**Pairing(s): **England/Italy and other multiplepairings (quite literally); e.g., Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/South Italy, etc...  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_dark_!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don't know to what level of detail just yet; _possibly_ a smidgen on the dub-con-ish side of life, though)  
><strong>Fun Facts:<strong> As far as historical facts go, I'll try to explain everything over the course of the chapter, but if I sneak any inside jokes into the mix I'll point them out at the bottom of the page.  
><strong>Translations<strong>: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page (special to _**Red Hot Holly Berries**_ for the proper Italian, though, and for also correcting my French).  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
><em><strong>Summary:<strong>__ Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. And it's really too bad Italy's the only one that seems to notice anything's wrong with the old Empire..._

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

Gilbert was not an early riser by nature. The only time Feliciano could recall seeing the man fully conscious before ten a.m. on a weekday was during the war, and back then nobody really slept much at all, even if you were the 'Awesomest being in the WORLD' (as was written on the wooden plaque nailed on the outside of Gilbert's bedroom door). Also on that point, Gilbert was not a particularly good spy when working alone, for the simple reason that he usually concocted his own plans and said plans were of an awfully flawed design. Feliciano, however, had been clear in his instructions, and since he asked Gilbert to _watch_ and do nothing more, the man shouldn't have had any trouble whatsoever in evading capture.

When Feliciano's phone rang at five thirty in morning, though, (which was an ungodly hour by his standards) he began to feel a little uneasy.

In all actuality, it was really Ludwig who heard his phone. They were curled up together in bed, Ludwig on his back with Feliciano pressed into his side, head resting lightly on his lover's chest, and both stirred when the German reached over to grab his lover's phone.

"It's yours, _Liebling_."

"_Grazie_," he mumbled, and said nothing more as he reached up to take the proffered cell. It was too early in the day for his mind to function properly, and he wasn't entirely sure he could form a proper sentence to save his life, but he could be cordially when needed and, besides, it could've been his brother calling to complain about his Spaniard. So he rose languidly from the bed with a reluctance that was echoed by the miserable sigh behind him and fiddled with the vibrating phone until he found the call button. Turning, he didn't have to look at Ludwig to know that the man's eyes were following his every move, admiring him nude with a possessive gleam that sent chills down Feliciano's spine, though he tried to put it out of his mind when he heard the heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

"Hello?"

_"Eh, Feli?"_

"_Sì_." It was Gilbert, he realized, and so he wandered around the foot of the bed to drop onto the divan by the window. The curtains were closed but they glowed diaphanously with the first blush of day and he felt warm enough sitting there without any clothes on. "How are you?"

_"Good...I guess."_

"Is something wrong?" He tried to keep his voice level, stretching his legs out slowly so that his lover would focus on them rather than the way he was chewing on his bottom lip. The man didn't need to know that he was collaborating with his brother.

_"Yes and no? I'm not sure...I think you might be right, though. Something's definitely up with old Artie."_

"What did you see?"

Ludwig stretched out his own legs under the covers and scratched his neck. Then he crossed his arm over his eyes and sighed.

_"First I found him talking with Alfred. Nothing unusual there, right? Except Alfred was having a one-sided shouting match with Arthur while the guy just stood there and smiled. Didn't rise to the bait. Not even once."_

_'Good,'_ Feliciano thought. At least now he wasn't the only one who'd taken notice of England's odd behaviour. And maybe he could talk to America later, perhaps squeeze a little information out of him. After all, Alfred was the only close correspondent of England's that he hadn't had a chance to chat privately with yet. He could very well figure the whole thing out with the American's input alone, considering that this entire mess apparently started with a fight between the two.

_"Then Arthur's other kid wander by. You know the one, right—Matthew? Well, he kind of looked like he wanted to leave with Alfred, but then Arthur muttered something and it stopped him dead in his tracks."_

"What do you mean?"

_"I don't know. He looked confused, maybe? Alfred didn't notice right away, but then he started snapping his fingers in front of his face and Canada just waved him off."_

The fact that England had been meddling in the affairs between the two brothers wasn't new to Feliciano, though he had to admit that it was starting to pique his interest. It was clear to him that, at least _now_, England didn't want them to be on good terms with one another.

"Is there any chance you heard what they were talking about?"

_"Not really. Alfred kept telling Arthur to stay out of his business, but, like I said, Arthur didn't say too much himself."_

"Nothing at all?" Feliciano whispered, lifting his hand to his mouth so that he could chew on his nail. He needed _something_ to go by...

_"Well, by that point he just kind of scoffed at Alfred's antics and told him that he and Matthew had important business to discuss. Then he left the guy standing there and took off with Mattie."_

Feliciano wanted to ask if the man had followed him from there, but Ludwig was still awake.

_"Anyhow, I had to call Francis to figure out how to get into his hidden passage at the Buck House, but I think I caught up with them in time to catch the important part."_

"Oh?"

_"You know...the kind of 'lie back and think of England' business? Literally, except I think Mattie might've actually enjoyed it for a bit..." _Gilbert lulled here for a moment and Feliciano wondered if he was embarrassed. But just as soon as he was about to open his mouth, Gilbert continued._ "Stupid Brit. He's got a beautiful kid, you know? But Arthur was mumbling something the entire time and Matthew looked kind of dazed and feverish by the end of it. Said he felt sick. Then he just got up, apologized, and left, and Arthur didn't do a thing to stop him."_

"That's...well, that's just business," Feliciano sighed, which was really the bitter truth. Generally speaking, he didn't hang around afterwards unless he was with Ludwig, but that was because Ludwig was Ludwig. Their relationship wasn't strictly 'business'...

Then again, Matthew and Arthur weren't exactly strangers either. Matthew had known the Brit almost his entire life.

_"I guess...So, anyways, I followed Matthew to his hotel and asked him what he was up to. He wanted to know what I was doing in London, but I just told him I missed him and had been looking for him all night. I asked him where he'd been, and you know what **he** said? Here's the kicker, beautiful—**he couldn't remember**. Not a **damn** thing. He said he guessed he was probably with Alfred, but that was about it."_

Feliciano's heart plummeted into his stomach. Not only because he felt a little ill for the Canadian, but because he himself had had a similar experience with England—_but_ all he could really remember was a kiss. Whether or not it had carried on beyond that point was something of a mystery, but if England had managed to get him back to Antonio and Romano on time, then he doubted they'd made any detours after their little dinner at _Babylon_.

At least, that's what he was hoping.

_"So, yeah, that's all I've got right now. Mattie asked me to hang around for a bit, otherwise I would've called you earlier, but I've been up all night, beautiful, so I'm gonna hit the sack right now—oh, but tell Ludwig he's the luckiest bastard on earth, and that if I find out he isn't giving you the best sex in the universe, I'll beat him within an inch of his life with Herr Stick. Ja?"_

Feliciano blushed. "Please, don't worry about it. He's...he's very good."

_"He'd better be, that Hurensohn."_

"...Theoretically speaking, you have the same 'mother' don't you?"

_"No clue. One second it's just me; the next, there's this blond kid biting at my ankles. God can play some pretty cruel jokes on a guy, you know..."_

"Well, _grazie_. I guess I'll talk to you later."

_"Ja, see you, gorgeous. Send West my regards."_

"I will," he laughed, and then he hung up, depositing his cell phone on the corner of their little coffee table. He stared at it for a moment and mulled over what Gilbert had told him, but other than the fact that Feliciano wasn't the only one being hounded down by the Brit, he really couldn't make heads or tails of it. Undoubtedly, a visit with America was in order, but he hadn't the slightest idea how he was going to bring up the subject with Alfred without setting off his alarms (or worse).

Ludwig murmured something and shifted on the bed. Feliciano took a second to collect himself and then sauntered over to bed, watching as Ludwig uncovered his eyes to lie his gaze squarely on Feliciano's tanned legs.

"Anything wrong?" Ludwig asked as Feliciano crawled under the covers to join him. Tugging the Italian closer, he leaned over Feliciano to kiss his neck, nibbling at the junction between his jaw and throat before moving downward.

"My friend saw something strange. I'm just worried about him."

Ludwig hummed thoughtfully in agreement but continued kissing, trailing his lips lower until he was eyelevel with Feliciano's collarbone. Then he glanced up at the Italian, eyes dark, as his tongue darted out to give him a brief livk. "Are you tired, _Liebling_?"

"No," he breathed. "Not at all..."

"Good."

Ludwig ducked his head under the covers.

They were late for the next meeting by twenty minutes.

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

A/N: Wow, I'm so tired right now. Feel free to blast me for anything, because I'm not entirely sure I'm reading this right.

**Translations:**

_"Hurensohn"_ ~ 'son of a b****' (German)

"_Liebling"_ ~ a term of endearment; i.e. 'darling', 'favourite', 'pet', etc. (German)

**Fun Facts:**

1) _"Gilbert was not an early riser by nature. The only time Feliciano could recall seeing the man fully conscious before ten a.m. on a weekday was during the war_..._"_ ~I can't, for the life of me, picture him as an early riser. Some people have even told me he's probably not even sober by noon, but that's debateable...

2) _"'Awesomest nation being in the WORLD' "_ ~even if he's aware that he's not exactly a nation anymore, I can't imagine Prussia settling for anything less than the best. Hence, he's edited his plaque to squeeze in the next best thing since his dissolution.

3) _"Anyhow, I had to call Francis to figure out how to get into his hidden passage at the Buck House, but I think I caught up with them in time to catch the important part..."_ ~two things here: First, 'Buck House' is actually what Buckingham Palace is referred to colloquially sometimes, and I imagine Arthur might stay here every once in a while since it's considered the primary residence of the British Monarchy. Truth be told, I figure he probably has his own flat somewhere in London (because, honestly, I can't imagine Matthew hanging around 24 Sussex Drive all the time in Ottawa, so why should Iggy be limited in his locales?), but I don't see why he can't stay over if he wanted to. And second, yes, I imagine France would've created/found a way to sneak into Arthur's bedroom unnoticed (especially by Arthur himself) over the years. I'll leave the details of Prussia's voyeurism, however, to your imagination...


End file.
